King of The Streets
by Barpon
Summary: Jason is a man on the run. He encounters a mystery in Chicago.
1. SHADOWS

_**Note from author** : Hello! It's my first fanficiton! I am a sad boy! I hope you enjoy this first chapter. It's kind of jankey and weird to me. Any questions/comments/criticisms feel free to let me know. Also of note, the Biker Mice from Mars are not of my creation, etc. Do not bully._

 **CHAPTER 1: SHADOWS**

 _It is a common saying that one cannot judge a book by it's cover. It's a simple phrase, really, but it tells an important fact that is far too often taken for granted: people are really complicated. And there are billions of them. Every person has his or her own little epic, a tale that spans a lifetime; there's some high points, there's some lows, and in all of them the protagonist dies. There is absolutely no way anyone can figure out someone else's totality just by looking at them, or gleaming enough information from a passing conversation at the gas station or methadone clinic. These are stories lived and told by these billions of people all over the world and beyond and at all times._

 _And they will all eventually die._

If anyone says that they are a good reader of people by first impression, they are probably full of shit.

Take, for example, Jason. Sleeping on a park bench at Rainbow Beach on the shores of Lake Michigan; his head tilted up and hanging over the backrest, his helmet still on, snoring-to anyone passing by he would appear as a rider taking an unintended nap while relaxing after a long night's solo cruise.

In reality he is a man on the downward slope of a severe nervous breakdown. He has been catapulting himself ever westward nonstop for two days, often at speeds in excess of what is considered 'reasonable'.

Most people tend to have their breakdowns in a rather sudden, dramatic fashion. Some drive their car off the bridge after spending 20 hours at the Best Buy fighting for the best deals on black friday, but then find out that the plasma screen TV they fought off several other angry soccer moms for has a crack in the screen. Others burn their houses down after they find out their significant other has been cheating on them with rest of the neighborhood. Others crap themselves while being tasered by the cops after demolishing most of the office because the vending machine failed to produce the kit-kat bar they paid $2.50 for.

Jason took a different approach. He methodically started to uncouple himself from reality. Over a 6-month period he sold his house and most of his belongings; walked out of his job with an electrical contractor that paid pretty well, bought an expensive motorcycle, strapped on his few remaining possessions and rode off. To put it succinctly: he disappeared.

And now he has awakened from a nightmare.

With a ragged gasp his eyes shot open. He sat up, ramrod straight and immediately calmed after realizing he was, in fact, not in Fallujah but somewhere slightly better, Chicago. In front of him on the ground lie his smartphone. The last thing he looked at before passing out was the latest news about the park. The top article read "Three Shot on South Shore". He stared impassively at the shore of Lake Michigan.

"Right."

He wasn't sure why he said that out loud, but with the exception of the gentle crashing of the waves, it was eerily quiet. He felt a need to break that silence.

He wasn't sure how long he had been out; it was still dark, so it couldn't have been for long. The time on the phone read 0430. Maybe an hour. He did not feel rested. Taking off his helmet, he placed it next to him on the bench and pulled a cigarette from the pack he kept in his jacket pocket and lit it. A steady gentle breeze pressed against his face. The temperature was warm, but mild. Clouds were beginning to cover the dark sky. It was going to rain soon.

After taking a long drag he turned to see if his motorcycle was still where he left it in the parking lot behind him. He was pleasantly surprised that it was. He felt less than pleased to see a cop car parked next to it.

* * *

Sergeant Pisarczyk has served twenty-four years as a beat cop in one of the roughest cities in America. In that time he has seen and done things that few can imagine, but one wouldn't really know that just by looking at the guy. In his late 40's, possibly early 50's, he stands at five foot 9. Overweight, his body is similar in shape to a pear. His once jet black hair has been slowly receding, now peppered with grey. His face a mix of pale white and a perpetual blush of red. A thick, heavy magnum-PI-esque moustache rests overbearingly under a stumpy upward-turning nose. His big bushy eyebrows settle on top of two brown eyes that appear to always be sweating.

He wears a groaning blue short-sleeve collared police shirt, it's buttons straining to contain the mass of flesh that years of distressing eating habits and beer have produced. A pair of solid black slacks wrap unbecomingly over his waist, pushing his gut upwards and over his trouser belt line in what could be called a tragic avalanche. In his totality, he resembles a dumpy sweaty pear with four short sticks poking out at uncomfortable angles.

To a passing observer, he would appear as an incompetent merely burning time on the pathway to retirement. In reality, Pisarczyk was an _incredible_ cop. He is so good at his job that he has acquired the Cop Body, a physical condition brought on by being so good at apprehending suspects and solving problems without use of physical force that his body has atrophied into a mass of suet. He is a legend in his precinct.

Because of his Cop Body, he also learned another skill, the Cop Teleport. Instead of chasing down perps, he merely shows up at the right place and at the right time, phase shifting through time and space. Thief stealing a purse from an old lady? Pisarczyk would teleport ahead one block of the perpetrator's path, step out of an adjacent alley with taser in hand. Zap, bam, thank 'ya ma'am, just doin' my job. He was a man beloved in the community, he is always willing to lend a helping hand to anyone in need, as long as it didn't require too much movement.

Once again, first impressions...

However events over the last three years has strained his skills to their limit. On the day before last christmas the weather had changed from mild and cool, into a snowstorm that dumped almost seven feet raining ice meteorites larger than a pickup truck, with a single spot over the Limburger Tower experiencing sun and temperatures equivalent to the Bahamas.

He spent that holiday directing traffic and plow trucks to get needed supplies to a nearby orphanage.

Another time a green dude was blasting out swathes of the lower east side with what appeared to be a guitar. He spent what would have been his vacation doing an investigation, which was stopped immediately by the chief with no explanations given.

Two days ago a large airship had crashed into the Limburger tower a'la 9/11, collapsing the whole structure. Now he could add terrorist attacks on the list of strange calamities that had befallen his beloved city.

Of note, the Limburger Tower itself has been demolished and rebuilt about 40 times.

Months of raging gang battles between weirdos on dune buggies and a trio of bikers, coupled with the Limburger Corporation's demolition efforts, has rendered the lower east side into a ghost town. There's a wild rumor that has been spreading all over the city that Chi-town is actually under an alien invasion, and as silly as that rumor would have sounded a mere few years ago, the good cop is starting to actually believe it.

Exhibit A in his opinion were the bikers.

Those three bikers, he remembered, looked a _little_ off. He had seen them in person riding through the streets at night or after the Limburger Tower had gone through its routine implosion and something just didn't seem right. For example why would three bikers wear fur coats in the middle of summer? And why were those fur coats skin tight? He could see their muscles bulging under the fabric. And he wasn't sure if it was an antennae on their bikes or something, but he felt certain that they had tails. Like a rat or something.

He has thought more than once of early retirement. Maybe move down south. Maybe he could get into that hobby of brewing his own beer. Maybe he could visit his wife more often…

... _yeah_...

...but never mind that, at the moment Pisarczyk was in a dilemma. He _really_ didn't want to leave the patrol car to investigate the person sitting on the bench after normal park hours. Technically, the guy was breaking the law, he was trespassing. The park was closed and somehow he got in past the gate. He didn't _seem_ to be doing anything else illegal. Other than sleeping, which is vagrancy. Pisarczyk didn't like that law, it seemed to do no real good other than pick on the homeless. But this guy doesn't seem homeless.

 _I mean, look at that freakin' bike! That thing has gotta be more expensive than a Harley!_

It was an ominous looking machine. Two stubby handlebars sat over a teardrop tank and trellis frame stretching over a massive engine. A sport-bike like seat, turning upwards, hung in the air above the rear wheel which sported a massive tire, larger than those on his patrol car, and was connected by a single strut on one side. The front tire sat on a short rake, the rims resembled spinning blades. Stumpy exhaust tips tucked under the seat jutting upwards at an aggressive angle. The foot pedals rested forward, like a cruiser bike. The heads on the engine block were placed in a loose angle, a canted L shape, quite unlike the V-Twin of the old Harley Road King he used to ride on patrol in his younger days. It had an alien appearance unlike anything the sergeant had seen before. The words 'DUCATI' were painted on the side of the tank, only adding to his bewilderment.

 _Ducati made a cruiser? Huh._

It was solid black, like a shadow pulled from the lake and given form. Seeing it at night, it would make one believe that the monsters of fables were real, and they played in the dark.

 _Yup, that don't look cheap._

He began to look around for any sign or excuse not to leave the car. Leaving the car was always the problem, having played football throughout his youth, piled on with his years of neglect after joining the force has reduced his knees to powder. Any movement sitting to standing was a titanic struggle. Sure, he could go back to the desk and out of the streets, but all he'd do is eat and sleep more. And his coworkers would complain about the snoring.

 _Well, it may be the gate was already open. He probably just rode in after a long night to get some quick rest; prolly didn't mean to take a nap._

He noted the various bags tied to the tiny space behind the seat and on the tank, and the black rectangular case that stood upright, tied by bungee cords to the rear.

 _Looks like he's on a road trip, maybe._

He saw the lack of a license plate on the bike.

 _Aw jeez, now that's not good_.

The biker had risen from his seat on the bench and made his way over the car.

 _If only he had his plates I wouldn't have to get out_.

Officer Pisarczyk began to get out of the car with a complicated series of motions planned to reduce any unnecessary pressure on his knees. The process could best be described as watching an oblong water balloon rolling down a staircase. Empty boxes of hostess pies and ding dongs spilled out of the open door. Finally upright, the officer could now get a good look of the biker that stood before him.

He stood at or slightly above six feet. His frame, bulky with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He appeared to be in good shape, not quite athletic, but maybe at one point in his life he may have been. His skin was pale like a hospital corridor. His hair, a bright fire-red, cut short in a slight fade. On his face a red stubble. His nose, nostrils tucking slightly upward, rested upon a narrow bridge; a slight kink-bend at the septum indicating a past trauma. His eyes seemed to be slightly sorrowful in shape. Irises the color of malachite, like polished stones. He appeared young, probably late 20's, but some unknown stress and hardship has aged his appearance, the features of his face may have once been considered gentle have taken on a harsher tone.

He wore a black leather jacket. Two white horizontal stripes lay across his upper shoulders and across his back; plates of armor visible on his shoulders, back and elbows. Black jeans fitted tight over his legs, the cuffs rolled up one layer and sat on top of a pair of black harness boots. With his left hand he held a pair of armored black gloves with kevlar knuckles and a solid white Shoei helmet. In his right, a lit cigarette.

He approached the officer and placed his helmet over the throttle handgrip of the bike.

"Good morning, sir" his voice was cool and calm, a slight rasp indicated exhaustion.

"Well good morning to you, too." Pisarczyk voice was higher in pitch, with a jovial tone and overwhelming midwestern accent. "I see you were having a little nap there. A long night's ride?"

"Yeah, I didn't mean to pass out there, I saw the gate open and stopped in to check my map."

"You been riding far?"

"Yeah, from Baltimore."

Jason winced, almost imperceptibly.

A flood of harsh memories came to the fore. He remembered the procession. The Marine detail; six men carrying the casket of the youngest brother. A gentle rain poured over the small gathering in black. A mother, still in shock, receiving a folded flag. The crack of rifle fire. The disintegration of the family. The roots shriveling.

 _Baltimore._ I _**ran**_ _from there. Left in the night. Fled a home that had become a mausoleum. Fled a past that was a perpetual funeral. What a pathetic thing._

"You okay there, bud, look like you seen a ghost"

"Y-yeah, sorry about that."

"Well I was wondering where you're from because I don't see a license plate on that there bike you got"

"Oh right, I got it in my backpack. It started falling off when I got to the city limits. A retaining nut had jiggled off." He pulled out the plate from a backpack he had strapped to the rear fairing.

"Alrighty. You got your license and registration there, too?"

"Yeah, in my wallet."

"So, uh, what's your name there my good man?"

"Jason. Jason McMahon."

"You, uh, related to that wrestler guy, vince?" He chuckled at his bad joke.

"Nope."

"Well, lemme help you get that license back on your bike there. It's no good riding around without that, I'm sure you know. I got some tools and stuff in the car here."

After a rather awkward few minutes of digging around mounds of empty cheetos bags and krispy kreme boxes Sgt. Pisarczyk found a couple of metric wrenches, and an extra screw and nut and some locktight. Jason promptly fixed the plate back on.

"Thanks for the help, officer, and sorry for the inconvenience."

"No probs young man. Everything checks out on my end in regards to your stuff all there, so you can go on ahead. You can't stay here, though, park's closed."

"Understood. What's the closest hotel from here?"

"We-ell, there's the Palace just over there" he pointed a sausage-link of a finger to the north. "But if you're not willing to spend beaucoup bucks you can just ride on over to the marriot on Marquette and Greenwood over yonder" he pointed vaguely in a more north-west direction.

"Alright, I'll just search for it in my maps." Jason pulled his phone from his pocket, twiddled around on it and, satisfied with his selection, pulled a black balaclava over his head-the graphic on it's face was of a human skull.

"That's a really friendly get up you got there. You goin' trick-or-treating?" the cop chuckled as he watched Jason put his helmet and gloves on and sat on his bike.

"Not quite. Keeps the dirt and smog out a bit." _Also I think of death constantly_.

With the flick of the engine on switch and press of the starter the bike roared to life and rumbled with a crackling idle.

"She sounds… angry."

Jason doesn't like to call things by a gender, it never sat right with him. Still, a compliment is a compliment.

"Thanks. You have a good morning, sir"

"Hey, before you leave, what's in that case right there?" Said the cop, indicating the rectangular black box.

"That's my saxophone." And with that and a wave, Jason peeled out of the parking lot and back on the streets, his motorcycle bellowing with a baleful howl.

Officer Pisarczyk watched him as he left the gate.

 _Now why for pete's sake would you take a saxophone on a road trip?_

* * *

Jason rode through empty avenues. The only sounds he could hear was the rumble of his motorcycle's engine and his steady breathing. Chicago looked very different from the images of postcards and movies he had seen as a kid. The buildings were all dark strange ruined shapes. Potholes dotted the pavement. The only sources of light were the intermittent pools formed from the streetlamps and the arcing cone of his highbeam.

 _Alone, the road stretches_

 _Straight to endless dark_

Jason was calm when riding. It was one of the only things that made him comfortable. On the seat and in the turns he had no past, no future, he only had the present moment.

It grounded him.

It was only when he stopped that all the regrets, the recriminations and hopelessness resurfaced. It was only then he could feel the gnawing loneliness.

And it was all of these negative thoughts that put him on this path. He had burned every bridge, every connection to the life he had and he rocketed out of orbit. A meteorite loosed from gravity. A terrifying freedom.

And like a meteorite he was beginning to burn out on the atmosphere. The scant hours on the park bench were insufficient and exhaustion creeped into his careworn body. He needed a hotel room and a stiff drink.

A single headlight appeared further ahead of him.

As he approached he could see what appeared to be a man on a race red sportbike, a model and make he had never before seen. He had come to a stop in the middle of the road about thirty yards away. Jason began to feel an uncomfortableness one would have seeing a stranger alone on a dark and vacant path. He slowed his approach, and his unease began to turn to fear. Adrenaline began to course through his veins.

A sudden flash burst from the front fairing of the red bike. Pulled by instinct, Jason swerved left to right and could see a single missile pass him by mere inches. He could feel the heat from its exhaust. An explosion erupted behind him.

There was no time to think, only to react. Ripping his throttle back, he plowed straight ahead, his engine roaring like an uncaged wild beast. His front tire lifted as a wall of torque pressed against him.

The red sportbike rider was already in the middle of a rolling burning slide, trying to block Jason as he sped past. In that fleeting moment he was able to get a good look at his assailant through the tire smoke, and he was horrified.

The man wasn't really a man. It wore a pair of heavy black boots and tight blue jeans. A cross of drab green bandoliers braced it's bare chest; the body covered in slabs of muscle with a solid white coat of fur layered on top. A long bare tail flicked from his backside excitedly. It wore a helmet that was of an unusual shape, inside it Jason could see a long muzzle and angry eyes the color of blood opal.

"Did you miss me, _punk_?" spat the creature as it let loose with peels of manic laughter. His voice had a distinct nasal tone.

 _What the hell is going on here? THIS IS NOT NORMAL._

 _...He's wearing a scarf on his neck._

It was only a passing glance, but enough information was processed for Jason to make his fight or flight decision.

He chose flight.

As he sped away he glanced at his mirrors and could now see three headlights behind him.

 _I gotta get outta here or I am so fucked._

Jason began to fly through the empty streets, randomly taking turns down avenues in a desperate effort to lose his pursuers. The forward controls of his motorcycle were not conducive to this frantic style of riding, his footpegs and tucked kickstand scraped against the asphalt, shooting long trails of sparks as he fought for lean in the corners. Despite these physical constraints, Jason rode with skill, offsetting his limited angle with more power, drifting his bike to counterbalance, shifting and punishing and cursing the asphalt as he rode helter-skelter in defiance of gravity's law.

Suddenly he felt alone again. Another glance at the mirrors and he saw only darkness behind him. Raindrops began to gather on his visor as he slowed his roll. He moved an arm to feel if his luggage was still attached. The first thing he felt was the saxophone case.

 _Why did I bring that thing with me?_ He thought. Then he started to laugh.

It was a feeling of euphoria, the high of the adrenaline gave him a sensation of dizziness. For having escaped possible death he felt for a fleeting moment more alive than he had in yea-

"I **found you.** "

It was the voice of that creature, only now it felt mere inches from his right ear.

Jason snapped his head to his right, and riding on the face of an office building was the creature, barreling towards him from above.

 _Are you KIDDING ME_ _ **?**_

Jason ripped the throttle again, attempting to pull away. This time, however, he couldn't shake his hunter. The creature was on his tail and gaining. On every straight he couldn't pull away. On every turn he would take the creature would get closer. And with every inch the creature gained on him Jason's panic increased.

He is an excellent rider, he could have been one of the best he was often told.

 _He was wild when he was younger,_

' _King of the Streets' they called him_

 _He rode hard for bragging rights_

 _He could have gone pro_

 _But life is the bone crusher_

 _And now he runs out of time_

Here he is thoroughly outclassed. The possibility of what would happen to him made his vain attempts to shake the creature all the more desperate.

Suddenly two other headlights lit up to his front, two other bikers. Their figures obscured in the light.

These must be his friends.

"Now, Throttle!" yelled the creature behind Jason.

A small explosion erupted in front of Jason as he attempted yet another swerve. The lights and display of his motorcycle switched off. His engine died as he was in mid turn going over sixty miles per hour. Without the motorcycle's power to counter gravity, all of the weight shifted straight down and Jason plummeted headfirst into the pavement.

* * *

 **POST SCRIPT:** _so that's the first chapter done. On a personal note I love music; it's a very effective means to set a mood or tone of anything—and for each chapter I would like to link to or post information on an artist who's music helped inspire me. For this chapter I choose the incredible song 'Shadows' by The Midnight, all their music is free to check out on YouTube or bandcamp, simply google the damn thing this website won't let me post links._ _Once again if you read to this point feel free to send any comments or criticisms my way. Thanks._


	2. MEN TODAY

_Author's note: Here's the next chapter, once again I don't own any of the characters from the TV show. Also a warning: there's some violence and depictions of horrific injury._

 **CHAPTER 2: MEN TODAY**

It was a normal midsummer day in the western Al Anbar province of Iraq. In other words, it was searingly hot; over a hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit. At temperatures this extreme there is no sweat, the water evaporates instantly from the skin. A person could drink a liter of water every hour and still piss brown.

In the shade of the watchtower, however, the climate was a bit more tolerable. Jason had been on watch at the vehicle checkpoint for half a day, behind the sandbags and bulletproof glass he could see the heatwaves emanate from the black asphalt of the main road to the city of Fallujah. The land beyond the barbwire and hesco barriers was flat and brown. Cutting through the horizon was a brilliant cloudless blue sky and squatting overbearingly above was the blazing white sun; the earth was it's anvil, devoid of life. It was no man's land.

On his body was over sixty pounds of ammunition, interceptor armor, helmet, full fatigues, individual first aid kit and extra water. He was tired and bored. His feet hurt from the constant standing, and his back hurt when he sat down. There was never any comfort, never any relief. If he wasn't getting shot at, he was on post. Rest was intermittent, never prolonged.

To his front, in a porthole, lay his M240B light machinegun and several belts of 7.62mm ammunition and spare barrels. Occasionally he would glance out and scan the horizon with a pair of vector binoculars, smoke a cigarette, drink a bottle of water and swat away flies. It was a torture of idleness.

The handheld radio strapped to a loop on his vest squaked. It was sergeant Brooks's voice.

"Mickey, I'm coming up."

"Roger that, sergeant." replied Jason.

After a few moments the wooden door behind Jason opened.

"What's up, dipshit?" said Brooks affectionately. He stood at a hair under six feet in height. Under all of his gear and armor he had a thin, wiry frame. A mountain man from Tennessee, he spoke in a steady, occasionally clipped southern drawl. His face was long in shape, a pointed chin and a long nose that pointed down. His lips narrow and pursed with a constant slight smirk. His hair was jet-black, his eyes brown topaz.

"Nothing much, sergeant, what's the deal?" said Jason.

"I spent too much time in the AC, you're relieved of your post. Go get some rest, it's been a long couple of days."

"You don't need to do that, I'm good to go."

"Belay that shit, mickey. That's an order. We got some downtime today and tomorrow. Third squad is coming up to replace us. Now go get some rest, you earned it."

"Understood, sergeant" said Jason as he picked up his machinegun and started to make his way out. Brooks walked over past Jason, giving him an affirming slap on the shoulder and proceeded to sit down on an empty ammo crate while unslinging his M4 rifle.

Jason felt a deep bond with all the men in the squad. They had been through the grinder over the last couple months of the tour, and had shared staggering loss and hardship. That was the theme of war: loss. There are no winners, only survivors. It is chaos and hell and death, the ultimate blight. And through all the horror and terror they had experienced, Sgt. Brooks was always on the front, giving all the right orders and making all the right decisions. He was a consummate leader, and Jason held him in the highest esteem.

Jason stopped at the tower exit.

"Is there anything I can get you from the exchange? I'm gonna stop by real qu-"

In a flash Jason was on his back. It felt like a sledgehammer had hit him on every part of his body, his vision blurred, his hearing deafened. So much dust had kicked up from the mortar strike that for a moment he couldn't see past his nose. Everything had changed so suddenly that it felt like he was teleported to some strange desperate dimension. He tried to right himself, but his legs wouldn't work. As the dust began to settle he could see shrapnel embedded in chunks through his thighs and arms, blood began to ooze out of the holes.

He glanced around and could see Brooks hunched over unmoving on the ammo crate. A red river cascaded down from where his left arm used to be.

* * *

Jason jumped up from the couch he was lying in. We was drenched in sweat and his heart was racing. As his senses came back to him he realized he was in an unfamiliar place, it appeared to be someone's home, possibly a living room. The distant pitter-patter of rain could be heard drumming the roof.

A mild, feminine and unfamiliar voice made him jump again.

"It's OK. You're safe. You were having a bad dream."

Jason turned to see who's voice it was and he saw an angel adjacent from him sitting cross-legged on an old-fashioned office chair.

She had a kind face with soothing features that radiated a distinct yet understated beauty. Her soft hair, the color of auburn, settled on her neat oval head in a simple shoulder-length mop. Her turquoise eyes exuded a confidence that was immediately reassuring to any observer. Her pert nose and goldilocks lips were perfectly centered on her face with creamy white skin that was unvarnished with makeup.

She wore a simple blue mechanic's button topshirt and dark blue jeans that covered an achingly gorgeous body. On her feet, a pair of brown cowgirl-style riding boots that rose just above her ankles.

Her slight, almost worried smile started to calm Jason a bit before his confusion started to set in.

"Who are you? Where am I?" he asked, his throat was dry and scratchy.

"Right now you're in my living room and the name's Charley. Charley Davidson." She extended a hand. Jason reached out after some hesitation and gave her a gentle grasping shake. He could feel slight callouses, the hands of a working woman.

"Jason. Jason McMahon."

Her smile widened slightly.

"So, Jason," she said, "how're you feeling?"

Upon hearing her question a spear of a headache lanced through his forehead. Aches and pains blossomed in spots all over his body as his adrenaline subsided.

"Like I've been hit by a truck" he answered with a grimace. He felt a deep dull pain all through his body.

It's not everyday for Jason to wake up in an unfamiliar place with no recollection of the prior night. He lifted up the quilt he was lying under to look at himself. He was naked except for his James Bomb brand boxer-briefs, the left side of his body from his thigh up through the torso and over his left arm and shoulder was covered in bruises. He didn't see any incisions made on his stomach, so as far as he could tell he still had both of his kidneys. Add in the fact that he wasn't lying in a tub of ice was also a nice detail. "What's going on? Where are my clothes?"

Charley snickered, raising a hand to her face to conceal a slight embarrassed blush.

"Your clothes are in the wash. It's been raining since last night and you were soaked through." She handed Jason a whiskey glass that was full of water and two aka-seltzer tablets dissolving in a bubbly fizz. "Here, for the headache. Do you have any memory of what happened to you last night?"

Jason took the proffered drink, the cool water slaked his thirst with an alkaloid aftertaste.

His mind didn't feel altogether in the moment. A fallow haze blurred his thoughts. It felt like the crevices of his brain were stuffed with cotton. He would try to recall specific events, only for them to fall through the cracks. He was intimately familiar with this sensation.

"It seems like I have a concussion."

"And you should consider yourself very lucky. You crashed your bike going over sixty. You sure got your money's worth out of your riding gear." She pointed to a corner of the room. Jason could see his white helmet sitting on a wooden table chair. It was badly dented and scraped on the left side, the visor was cracked. His jacket hung on a wall mounted coatrack, the leather on the left arm sleeve peeled back, exposing the armor padding and brace underneath. He glanced back at his bruises and was appreciative that was all he had. He was going to be very sore for the next week.

"My bike?" asked Jason, not taking his eyes off of the tattered equipment.

Charley's face turned into a frown. "Unfortunately... it's totaled. The impact bent the forks and the frame. It's a real shame, that was a beautiful bike you had there, was it a new mode? I didn't know Ducati made that kind of bike."

"Yeah, bought it last week." Jason said softly. His heart sank. He loved that bike. It was probably the only thing left in his life that he felt anything positive about. It was a jilting loss, another sensation he was intimately familiar with. He was starting to feel a gutting uncertainty. No bike, no home; like a small rowboat adrift in a stormy ocean. Despite his turmoil, he remained stonefaced.

"On the bright side," Charley continued with a more upbeat inflection to her voice, "all of your luggage made it safe and undamaged. Including your saxophone."

 _That fucking sax_ thought Jason. _All the way from Baltimore to Chicago my journey to nowhere ends. And all I have left is my saxo-_ the sluice gate opened; a wave of memories came flooding back. It was as if the numbing warm that surrounded his mind was ripped off, exposed to the harsh cold of reality.

"I remember." he said flatly.

Charley uncrossed her legs and sat closer to the edge of her seat, her attention, rapt.

As Jason started to form his recollections he felt like an idiot. He wondered how in the hell was she going to believe him.

 _No matter_ , the thought, _I'm too tired to lie._

"It felt like a dream; I saw this strange creature on a motorcycle stopped in the oncoming lane. He was waiting for me. Before I could do anything he fired what I think was a missile at me..."

As he recounted the prior night's events he could see Charley's eyes widen in shock and then, slowly, turn to anger as he described the fear he felt desperately trying to shake off his pursuer. By the end of his story Charley appeared frighteningly beside herself with a seething rage. Her hands clasped the sides of her seat, her knuckles turned white, her teeth clenched in a bare-lipped snarl.

The gentle angel had morphed into a demon from hell, and Jason felt another twinge of terror.

"Those fur-brained **IDIOTS**!" Charley spat.

 _Waitaminute. What did she mean with that? Does she...?_

"Wait, miss Charley, do you know who or what I'm talking about? You actually believe what I'm saying?"

Charley looked back at Jason with a look of someone fumbling through what to say next to a person who has no idea what they have gotten themselves into. As she opened her mouth to speak the sound of approaching motorcycle engines stopped her. They both looked at a nearby door.

Charley stood up and began to walk to the door.

"Hold on one second and we'll have everything explained." Her icy tone was that of a person who had some killing to do.

 _ **We'll** have everything explained? _Thought Jason. _Who are the others?_ He started to think about possible ways to escape.

As Charley opened the door she turned back to give Jason a reassuring glance, and then left. He could hear the steady rhythmic tapping of boots on wooden steps. Things went silent.

Jason took this time to look at his surroundings. The living room was furnished with what appeared to be either hand-me-downs or deals picked up at a thrift store. A nearby bookshelf contained mostly technical manuals and repair guides for a wide variety of automobile and motorcycle manufacturers. The only thing of absolute modernity was the flat-screen TV that sat on an old display. It was a modest yet cozy setup.

From downstairs he could hear a slightly muffled conversation. Several voices were talking, the words spoken were masked by layers of wall and floor but he could hear several different male voices. Then, suddenly, Charley's voice erupted.

"No, you're all gonna go up there and talk to him! He's in this mess because of you three lunkheads, and you're all gonna go up there and apologize and explain everything! Go. GO!"

Jason struggled to stave off his flight or flight urge as he heard several pairs of heavy feet clamoring up the staircase. In his mind, he thought of several almost fantastical scenarios of what was going to happen, but nothing in his wildest imagination could prepare him for what walked through the doorway.

Three... _beings_ walked into the room and lined themselves sheepishly against the far wall from where Jason sat. Their bodies were human-like in shape—most certainly male. Their heads, however, were animal-like in shape with long muzzles, large ears and visible buck-teeth. From behind them Jason could see long slender tails. They looked like anthropomorphic rodents of some sort. From the top of their heads were a pair of licorice-red stalks, antennae. All three creatures were currently avoiding eye contact with Jason, either picking a nice corner of the room to stare at, or busily fidgeting with their hands (paws?). All three had the build of people who don't often skip the gym.

Jason was dumbfounded. He sat on the couch and stared at all three of them, his mouth agape.

Charley coughed. "So, these are my friends. They're from out of town."

With a hand wave she indicated the first who had walked in. His long shaggy fur was a soft brown, like desert sand on the Mojave. He wore a dark pair of old-school style sunglasses that hid his eyes, a red bandanna tied over his neck, a black sleeveless leather vest and tight-fitting blue jeans with knee-pads and a pair of heavy harness boots. He exuded a steely coolness, like a leader-type person. His current posture, though, indicated embarrassment. "This is Throttle," said Charley.

Throttle rested a fingerless-gloved hand on the back of his neck, and with the other waved slightly.

"Uh, hello, citizen" he spoke with a husky, smooth voice.

Charley then pointed to the second one. The first thing Jason noticed with awe was his height, standing at least a head and a half taller, the creature's antennae mere inches from the ceiling. One eye was covered with a patch, the other a crimson ruby red, a burning bar of steel from the furnace. His fur a slate-grey. He had the body of a Peterbilt 379, and wore what appeared to be combat armor on his chest in a panoply of blues, reds and purple, with a similar scheme over his legs and boots. Jason then noticed his right arm was a prosthetic that looked like it was milled from a block of aluminum. He appeared more combat-worn than the others. Jason could see light scars through his fur, and holes in his ears from what looked like near misses. Over his exposed midriff was some fresh gauze wrapping around a wound of some sort. Despite his menacing presence and form he appeared even more timid than the others, twiddling his fingers between his hands and staring at the floor with a crestfallen expression. "This is Modo," said Charley.

"H-hello, sir." said the giant, haltingly. He spoke with a grumbling depth, like gravel rolling in a cotton blanket.

"And this is Vinnie."

Jason locked eyes on the white mouse.

No longer under the dark of the city streets he had a less shocking appearance. Standing at the same height as Jason, he a had a more slender, wiry frame. One thing he hadn't noticed before was the metal plating that covered half of his face.

"I remember you," said Jason, his voice sounded almost detached. "You rode like a demon last night chasing me. I had never seen such moves before."

Vinnie perked up at that comment.

"That's right!" he said, his voice had a higher-pitched, more nasal tone than the others, sounding like an 80's DJ who drank way too much caffeine. "That's why they call me the baddest mama-jamm—OUCH!"

Charley had stomped on Vinnie's tail while grabbing one of his metal-studded ears in a hard pinch. Her bared teeth and glaring expression made no illusions of her frustrations with the high-strung creature.

"I think all three of you have something to say to Jason, don't you?" she said, eyeing the three miscreants.

All three started to mumble, making apologetic sounds.

"Speak up!" yelled Charley.

"Sorry, bro-"

"-our bad-"

"-won't happen again!"

"So..." Charley asked Jason with a hint of nervousness to her voice. "Do you have any questions?"

Jason looked at the three beings in front of him. He was having trouble processing everything.

"So you guys are from, where, like Milwaukee or something?" he asked.

"Not _exactly,_ " answered the one named Throttle.

"We're from Mars" said Modo.

 _Ah OK, makes sense, Mars. Makes a lot of sense._ Jason began to feel like he was losing touch with reality. Upon another look around he noted that the three kind of looked like cast members of a weird furry Mad Max film. Still maintaining some semblance of self control he continued his questions.

"And you're clearly not human, per se."

"Nope, we're mice!" said Vinnie.

"Right, and you ride bikes—found that out last night."

"Yup." said Modo.

"So... you're biker mice from mars..."

"Hit the nail on the head! Boy this guy is smart, what can I say!" that comment earned Vinnie another stomp and a pinch. "OW! That hurts! You know I don't like it rough like that, Charley-girl!"

His protest only emboldened Charley's abuse. The other two mice started to snicker.

Jason sat there watching the whole spectacle. His mind was racing.

 _Just stay calm, Jason. No big deal, apparantley there's aliens and they're martians and they speak perfect english. No biggie... Let's just get to the bottom of this... you're sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation on how you got here and what's going on... just stay-_

" **Son of a** **BITCH!** " Jason slammed his hands down on the coffee table. His outburst made the mice and Charley flinch. A few moments of silence passed. Eventually, Jason turned over to look at Charley.

"You got any booze?"

* * *

 _So that's it for this chapter! I have to admit that it may jarring for some readers to start off with such a grim thing, only to turn to a more... light-hearted segment. Let me know what you guys think! For the next chapter I'm probably gonna spend more time actually setting up the plot and establishing Jason's relationships with the main characters, and how he fits into this universe. As I have done in the previous chapters there was a song that both inspiried this chapter, and is also the title of said chapter and that's "MEN TODAY" by the band HEALTH. Look it up on youtube or whatever, it's a great albeit jarring song._


	3. DUST

_Hello everyone! So I got a new chapter, and it was quite painful to write, but here it is! **Warning** : this chapter has some rather graphic content, violence and war, as well as some extreme language. I probably could have toned that down, but it wouldn't feel right in the context the language was used. Either case, here's the chapter. Also, Biker Mice are owned by someone else, not me. Also welcome to the geohell._

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3: DUST**

Throttle was in a bind.

Last night he and the bros had chased down what they thought was a very dangerous opponent in a carefully planned and skillfully orchestrated ambush. But while the operation was a success, they got the wrong guy. In other words: SNAFU.

Behind tinted shades he stared at the human named Jason. At the moment he was sitting on the couch holding a bottle of table wine Charley had offered him upon his request for some booze. Throttle couldn't help but sympathize with the guy; if he were in his shoes he'd probably want a stiff drink himself. By the look of displeasure on Jason's face table wine wasn't going to cut it.

Modo had taken up a chair across from the human, twiddling a bottle of rootbeer. It looked as if he wanted to get a conversation started, but was uncertain of where to start.

At least now having some fresh, clean clothes had hopefully saved Jason from any further abasement. Unfortunately he had to wear a pair of Vinnie's jeans due to the fact that his own pair was torn up when he laid his bike down. Throttle glanced over to the white mouse who was currently standing in the back of the room talking in a hushed tone to an unhappy looking Charley. It might not have been loud enough for Jason to hear, but with his more sensitive hearing Throttle could listen in easily.

"Just make sure I get those pants back after he gets his own pair, babe. I'm down to only this and my swimming trunks _._ " said the white mouse.

"Didn't I get you guys a dozen pairs each? What happened to the other ten?" whispered Charley in an annoyed tone.

"Wear and tear, babe. You know with the stuff we do and all. While my studly bod is usually unscathed in our manly adventures it turns out cotton jeans don't take too kindly to flamethrowers or lazer fire _._ " Vinne made a macho pose, wiggled his eyebrows and made an lascivious grin at her.

Charley in turn made a scowl and rolled her eyes in mock indifference, but couldn't hide her slight blush.

It had been more than a year since their chance meeting with Charley, but Throttle suspected Vinne's antics were starting to grow on her. And he had a good suspicion as to why. Despite Vinnie's chauvinistic displays he has a kind heart and cares deeply for their beloved mechanic. At some point she had gotten a glimpse of the real Vinnie, probably when he opened up to her about Harley—his first and rather tragically short-lived love—and started to respond to his advances in a more receptive yet subtle fashion.

As Throttle watched their endearing exchange he started to think of another important woman in his life and a pang of loneliness arced through his chest. He thought of her eyes of earthy zircon; midnight black hair, the scar above her muzzle like a shallow trench in the earthy loam of her beige fur. She was light years away from him and he wondered if she too woke up in the night thinking of him as he did of her.

He pushed away those tender thoughts and refocused on the task at hand: what do with this Jason person. In all fairness to him he's handled this whole thing pretty well. When most people see the bros for what they are they either tended to faint or refuse they even existed or were hallucinations. Instead Jason just sat there, probably trying to wrap his mind around everything he just saw. But here they were: the proverbial cat was out of the bag, and Jason probably had a ton of questions that needed to be answered. Throttle also had some questions of his own.

For starters, could he be trusted?

Yes, he was the wrong guy as far as they knew, but he looked almost exactly the same or at least wore all the same gear, looked the same size and rode the same bike. There were only two real noticeable differences: one being that this guy's hair was much shorter, albeit the same color; the other difference was that this guy was lugging around all kinds of bags and personal belongings, as if he was on a road trip.

The strange thing about that last fact was the rather random things he decided to take with him. He brought no extra clothes, no emergency supplies or anything actually useful on an extended journey. Instead he packed some family photos, a folded American flag; the title for his now wrecked motorcycle; a saxophone and a set of military ribbons. It was the last item listed that gave him something to talk about. And from the tattoo of the eagle, globe and anchor that he saw on Jason's left shoulder earlier was anything to go by, he had a decent idea of where to start.

It was time to get digging. Well, technically he and the bros had already started to dig when they rifled through the poor guy's personal belongings—which in hindsight wasn't a very nice thing to do, but they had to make sure he had nothing that was dangerous. One could never be too safe...

 _That was a pretty crummy thing to do, actually,_ thought Throttle as he sat down on a chair near Jason. Everyone else except Jason looked up.

Throttle cleared his throat.

"So, uh, Jason, right?" he asked.

Jason nodded.

"You were in the Marines?"

"Yes," said Jason, "0331, machinegunner." He didn't sound too proud of that fact.

"How long were you in?"

"Six years. Got out in '09"

"Well, thank you for your service."

Jason winced at the compliment. "I'm not sure what you have to be thankful for. Didn't you guys say you were from Mars?"

"Well, yeah, but we were soldiers, too." Throttle waved a hand to indicate Modo and Vinnie, "we know that we're from a different planet, but Chicago is our second home, and we appreciate those here that served; we know what's it like."

Jason looked at Throttle with a cold expression. "I don't think you do."

"Did you go overseas?" asked Modo in a curious, but reassuring tone.

"Yeah. I did a tour in Iraq in '04... I'd rather not talk about it." Jason was now staring straight ahead. He had a look on his face that the bros were intimately familiar with. It was the kind of look that said he had seen things and done things no person, man or mouse, should ever have to do. Things that have stained him. Things he'd rather keep locked away in a box somewhere deep within his memory.

Throttle respectfully decided to change the subject.

"So you're from Baltimore, right? What brings you all the way out here?"

"Road trip."

"Where were you planning on heading to?"

"I don't know." Jason proceeded to unscrew the cap of the wine bottle and guzzle it. Everyone else looked at the spectacle with varying degrees of unease. With a hiss and clenched teeth he placed the now half-empty bottle on the coffee table and turned to look at Throttle.

"Listen, these last few days have been kind of crazy for me, but shouldn't _I_ be the one asking _you_ questions?"

"Fair's fair. Alright, shoot."

"So..." Jason pressed his hands to his face as he started. "So, how did you guys stop me last night? I remember making my swerve when I saw you, then an explosion, then my bike died. I never saw anything like that."

"It was because of this," said Throttle as he pulled an object from a bandoleer he had tied over his right thigh. Jason recognized it as a 40mm grenade, the kind that's launched from an M203: an under-barrel grenade launcher attached to most NATO service rifles. It was a bit longer than he remembered, and it was colored a solid blue, both the casing and the projectile. "It's an EMP that Charley here made using some of your earth technology. We fired it out of this thing that Charley had lying around the shop—" Throttle then pulled an old M79 launcher from a holster he had strapped over his back "—it's primitive, but effective."

 _What kind of shop has old military surplus assault weapons lying around?_ Thought Jason. He shook the thought, deciding that more important questions needed to be asked.

"OK, how do I know that you guys are for real? Like this isn't some weird coma dream that I'm having in my final dying moments?"

"Well I could slap you if you think that'll help." said Modo holding open his cybernetic hand.

Jason stared at Modo.

Modo shrugged and made a sort of goofy grin. "Well, I was just tryin' to help..."

"Listen," said Throttle as he put a hand on Jason's shoulder, "I know this is a bit much for you—"

"—That's an understatement—" Interjected Jason.

"—but if it will help convince you I can tell you our story: who we are, where we come from, how we got here and why we're staying."

Jason took a deep breath and exhaled. Throttle could smell fermented grapes and alcohol.

"Fine, so go ahead, then."

"Well, I'll need to use these" Throttle pointed at his antennae "To create a mind-link and share my thoughts with you." Throttle deliberately left out the one small detail where he could also probe Jason's thoughts and memories. He needed to know to a certainty that Jason was in fact a good guy caught in a bad situation. There were too many coincidences to simply brush off.

"'Mind-link'? Wait you're saying you're telepathic? You serious? How do I know you're not gonna hurt me, like fry my brain or something?"

"Trust me, I used it on Charley-girl when we first met her."

Jason glanced over to Charley, she nodded with a very serious expression. "It works." she said, "Just... I know you were in the Marines and can handle a lot of stuff, but what he will show you is... pretty intense. Like the best and worst action movie all in one. It's hard to explain, you'll know what I mean when you go through it, _if_ you want to go through it."

Jason turned back to Throttle and gave him a long, hard stare.

"Fine," he said as stood up, "let's do this."

"I need you to hold still," said Throttle as he approached Jason, his antennae glowing with a soft, primarily red iridescence.

As Throttle placed his hands on Jason's shoulder's the world went black.

* * *

Jason found himself standing alone, around him lay the vast emptiness of space. And then, ascending in resplendent beauty was the red planet Mars. Floating nearby, his sons, Deimos and Phobos.

It was a stunning sight, far more impressive than even the most high-definition Imax films could possibly produce.

Before he could fully take in the sight, he heard Throttle's voice speak to him. He could not pinpoint it's location, it felt to be all around him, clear and calm.

 _This is our home, Mars. A long time ago we lived lives not too different from you humans._

The scene shifted. Jason now stood in what appeared to be a futuristic city carved into the many mountains on the planet's surface, like Petra or the Ellora caves. Homes and skyscrapers arose from the rust red rock. Streets and avenues carved through the surface in wild wavy shapes. It was a near perfect blend of civilization and nature; all around glittered lights and glass, he saw strange alien plants and creatures that skittered about like pigeons and squirrels, fitting an easy niche in the urban biome.

He saw the many Martian mice, just like the ones he met in Charley's living room, but dressed in what he assumed to be the latest fashions of their culture, normal civilian clothes. They walked the streets and restaurants and stores in droves. He could see their homes, their parks; couples on benches made of strange materials; families and children playing in fields of blue-green grass. Strange vehicles rode on tires or hovered slightly above the ground. He could see motorcycles and bicycles, buses and trucks, it was pure movement, all wonderfully bustling with life.

 _We lived in cities and towns. We had farms and manufacturing centers, much like you humans. Despite our tensions with the other species that coexisted with us there was relative peace. We all lived out our little lives. We made friends, found love; raised families. We enjoyed movies and music and food. We went to school and had normal jobs and life was pretty good._

Strange ancient feelings stirred from deep within Jason's chest. Tears burned at the edges of his eyes. He felt the wonder and mystery of life; emotions he had long planted into his past now bloomed in rapturous joy with the knowledge that mankind was truly not alone, and those beyond the earth lived peacefully—a universal thing.

 _Then the Plutarkians arrived._

Strange alien ship flew on the horizon, larger than the largest aircraft carriers. Their strange and ugly hues of purple and black clashed with their almost non-euclidean geometry. A sickening dread began to overwhelm Jason.

Birthed from the bellies of these monstrous craft arrived bloated fish-like beings, creatures even uglier than the ships from whence they came.

 _They offered us the promise of capitalism. Free market values and the freedom of intergalactic entrepreneurship. In actuality they bought our leaders, who sold our people and our planet off for strip mining and slavery. They preyed upon our greed, and too late did we realize our folly._

The scenes continued to shift like a sort of compilation video except that Jason felt he was there. He could feel and smell and taste everything but yet was still a passive observer.

Large digging contraptions bored into the planets surface, burrowing like ticks. The martian mice in chain-gangs, working feverishly in the mines with pick and jackhammer under the watchful eyes and lazer rifles of their disgusting slavers.

A ditch of bodies buried under by a Plutarkian bulldozer. A young martian mouse's head being smashed in by a rifle-stock as punishment for collapsing due to dehydration.

 _Eventually we started to resist, we fought at first with our armies, and eventually with guerrillas. It was not enough._

Scenes of visceral combat assaulted Jason's senses. He could now see the war from Throttle's own perspective, lazer fire shooting around him as he leveled his assault gun into the Plutarkian mass in front of him. His comrades falling to his left and right. These sensations Jason was all too familiar with. Adrenaline began to course through his veins, panic gripped his chest.

 _The Plutarkians played us off one another, buying off the rats and the raiders, forcing us to fight among ourselves and not against our common foe. Our numbers shrank, our cities turned to dust from orbital bombardment._

The cities that so elegantly rose from the Martian rock were now on fire. Long streaks of tachyon lazers gouged out their centers. The grim reaper grimly mowing through the innocent masses. Millions perishing. The teeming mounds of life seared off the surface.

 _Those who were lucky to escape fled into the caves. Left to fight over ruins as the Plutarkians moved on to their next targets of opportunity._

Jason watched helplessly, his screams of anger and rage echoed impotently. Throttle could feel the human's pain and horror, but he continued his story.

 _We gathered what remaining forces we had, some stayed with the army, but others joined our cause as freedom fighters. And that's where we came from._

More combat. Mice riding strange motorcycles and blasting hard rock from unseen speakers. Jason could see the three bros charging heard-first into danger. They raided Plutarkian depots, fighting rat and raider mercenaries. Raised gloved fists and rebel yells came from the throats of the biker mice as they and fellow freedom fighters took back destroyed towns and slowly began to reclaim the carcass of their civilization. The music they played was from Earth. It was a song in particular that Jason was intimately familiar with.

" _ **Stroll through the shanties and the cities remains  
Same bodies buried hungry but with different last names  
These vultures rob everything leave nothing but chains  
Pick a point on the globe! Yes, the picture's the same"**_

Jason would blast this song from the humvee as they rode through the streets of Fallujah. The irony of this did not go unnoticed by he and his fellow marines. The Marines were the oppressors, servants to the so-called vultures, like Plutarkians to the Martians. The parallels were uncanny. He felt something foreign searching through his memories, an unseen hand flipping pages in the file cabinet of his past.

" _ **There's a bank, there's a church, a myth and a hearse  
A mall and a loan, a child dead at birth  
There's a widow pig parrot, a rebel to tame  
A white-hooded judge, a syringe and a vein"**_

As the song carried on Jason's thoughts began to bleed into Throttle's visions. The ruined streets of the martian cities were replaced with the rubble and dirt of western Iraq. It was as if someone was turning a faucet in his brain; old, awful memories began to drip in. These were things that Jason would always try to hide from view only to appear in his waking nightmares. Now they were beginning to vomit forth like bile from hell's stomach. The harrowing sadness, the old traumas. War. Death.

 _What is this? What is going on? Are these your thoughts, Jason? I can't stop them. By the gods, **stop them**.  
_

Jason could sense Throttle's confusion, but he couldn't stop the visions. The lines of memory began to blur as a family of disheveled humans ran through the battle between the biker mice and the mercenary force. There were five of them hunched in a single file line, hands clasped together for fear of losing one another in the torrent of fire; a mother dressed in a black burqa, a son who looked to be in his late teens, another son who looked adolescent and a father at the front waving a white flag.

But there was one who stood out, stopping momentarily as she stared at Jason with wide open brown eyes. She couldn't have been older than six, her hair was cut above her shoulders, a purple butterfly hair-clip hung loosely from the side of her head. In her hands she clutched a barbie doll, it's blonde hair braided into a simple ponytail.

Jason could feel the body armor on his chest, constricting his breath. His helmet clamped down on his head, the weight of ammo and weaponry dragging him down.

He could see the family run into a nearby building next to the one where the enemy had positioned themselves, raining fire upon the stranded marine squad hunched next to a stucco wall on a lower roof across the street. Jason turned to look at Corporal Hare. He lay next to Jason, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his hands grasping at his open bleeding throat. He made gulping and gurgling sounds, blood spraying from his mouth in a fine mist, a vain attempt to purchase air in his final moments. Jason was now trying to apply gauze to the wound, his gloved hands shaking as blood soaked through the fabric. Hare's legs kicked fruitlessly, boots scraping on the ground, rubbing long streaks of red on the dirty rooftop. He mouthed words that would go unheard.

"Mickey! Mickey, you son of a bitch!" Sgt. Brooks grabbed Jason and pulled him off of the dying man. "Get on the line and show these motherfuckers some fire discipline or we're dead fuckin' meat! Corpsman up!"

There were only nine of them. Now eight. All alone against an unseen foe. From the rain of gunfire they had to have numbered in the dozens, and they had the marines dead to rights.

Jason righted himself to the wall and placed his M240 on top. Pressing his shoulder into the machinegun's stock, he peered down the sights. His thoughts were racing, a killing rage burning in his chest. He needed that rage in order to fight, to survive.

 _By the gods-_

"Across the street! Upper floor windows, give to 'em!"

Jason let loose with a long pull on the trigger. The machinegun roared to life, rattling and thumping, tracers flew into the nearby windows, plaster sheared off the walls from bullet impacts. Jason screamed at the top of his lungs.

"Die motherfukers! Die goddamn you!"

The rest of the squad jumped to, and poured on fire. Brooks fired a grenade from his M203 and scored a direct hit through one of the windows. Lance Corporal Garcia stood tall under the hail of covering fire and launched an AT4, dust and smoke erupted from the deafening roar as the missile scored another direct hit. Sergeant Goodman was hunched over, holding a radio set to his ear, yelling out coordinates for an artillery strike.

"Pale Horse! Pale Horse, this is Hitman-three! Request fire mission, immediate suppression, reference mark: alpha, alpha three, add twenty, drop thirteen, danger close! Send HE on impact, how copy?"

A lone insurgent ran out from an unseen alley onto the nearby street. He was a young man, probably late teens or early twenties, his frame skinny and narrow. He wore a tracksuit and flip-flops. On his chest sat an olive drab bandoleer of AK magazines. He turned to face the marines, leveling an RPG-7.

Brooks pointed at the man as he brought his rifle to bear. "One down low, shoot that motherfucker!"

Jason aimed his machinegun and unloaded a burst. Tracers tore through the insurgent's forearm and chest, ricocheting off the ground behind him. The man fell forward, his arm dangling, attached only by a few strands of flesh. He looked as if a switch was flipped inside of him, as if the vigor in his body was sucked out of him. His motions became slow and sluggish as he placed down the rocket launcher with his one good hand and started to crawl back to safety.

"Goddamn it, keep shooting him! He won't stop fuckin' moving!"

Jason fired a longer burst, the insurgent's body wilted and began to tear apart from the hail of bullets.

 _By the gods-_

From the skies came the mortar rounds, howling. Brooks grabbed Jason and pulled him below the wall.

"Incoming! Get down! Get on the deck!"

Deafening explosions erupted. There were four impacts as shrapnel and debris flew over the marine's head. Then silence. The enemy had ceased their staccato.

As Jason peeked his head over the wall he saw the building in front of him crumbling, the impact of the 120mm rounds collapsed the center structure. All but one round hit it's mark, it had impacted directly on the building the family had fled into.

Like a beacon, Jason's eyes were pulled to a charred barbie doll that sat in the rubble, among broken brick and glass and torn clothing.

 _...the gods._

Then there was darkness

* * *

 _So there's the chapter! I'm gonna try to put in some romance element there next chapter, just to try to balance out the horrific misery I have written so far. I'm still feeling a bit shaky in terms of pacing and plot. I feel like I'm bogging myself down with too much minutia. I had to rewrite this son of a bitch four times, and each time I reread it I got upset and started to delete whole paragraphs. Action is goddamned hard to write. That being said, I'm hoping you readers who have gotten this far with me are enjoying what I'm writing, and if you guys have any complaints, or criticisms or whatever, feel free to send me a review or a message or PM me!_

 _Also, there's two songs I thought fit this chapter best, the first one was "Calm Like a Bomb" by Rage Against the Machine, the lyrics written in this chapter are from that song. It's a heavy, mean thing with a lot of explosive energy, and when I was in Iraq I tended to blast it out of some mini speakers I got from an aid package. So there. The other song was "Dust" by the artist M.O.O.N., it's a rather mellow, sad and simple tune one would play alone and depressed in a darkened room._

 _So, once again, thanks for anyone reading this for taking the time out of their day to read it, and any critique or comment is most welcome!_


	4. GUILT AND WORTHLESSNESS

_So here's another chapter. Sorry about the wait, but this took a lot longer than expected. I've been caught in a nice time-crunch between work and school. Once again the mice are the properties of our corporate overlords, and make sure you buy more of the products they sell you. Of note btw are some of the other works by fellow writers that I have aped some details from in the sense of the whole telepathy thing notably from the writer Ashes2 "An Open Mind" and "The First" by the Third Biker Scholar, both are awesome stories, so I felt the need to give them their due credit here, if you read this please go check them out._

 _So, on to the happily titled chapter._

 **CHAPTER 4: GUILT AND WORTHLESSNESS**

What a difference a day makes.

Last night when Jason sat on the bench at Rainbow Beach Park he was in the middle of a nervous breakdown. Everything seemed rather simple: the universe was a cold, indifferent place and everything that he loved in his life had vanished. The future was a long, dark road running straight to it's inevitable conclusion.

Now he was leaning next to the lone window in Charley's guest bedroom, smoking a cigarette and looking outside at the city, lost in thought; his mind scattered in countless different conflicting directions.

There was a fork in the road. The future was unknown.

Outside of the room the muffled conversations between the three mice and Charley had died down.

It was early evening and the rain had stopped. Everything was eerily quiet. Jason had expected one of America's most populous cities to be bustling with activity at all times, but the neighborhood he was in was empty. The tenements across the street were all boarded up with large red X marks painted on the sealed doors and nailed next to them were large signs labeled "BUIDLING CONDEMNED, SCHEDULED FOR DEMOLITION BY LIMBURGER REAL ESTATE INC, HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY".

"Admiring the big stink-fish's work, huh?"

Jason flinched. Even though Charley's voice was in a normal, conversational tone the suffocating quiet made it sound like a gunshot. Inhaling sharply he twisted his head around and saw the auburn-haired woman holding a fresh set of bed-sheets and pillows. She had a concerned look on her face.

"I'm sorry, did I startle you?"

"It's OK. I'm fine." Jason had been in the room for over an hour but hadn't given his surroundings a thorough look. The room was small, but not cramped. There was a bare queen-sized mattress on a simple wooden frame. The walls were painted light blue, with simple white corner trim. The nearby wooden book shelf was filled with more technical manuals. A single, basic white ceiling fan with a lamp hung in the center of the room. The floor was wood, like everywhere else in the apartment.

Charley placed the bedding on the mattress, sighed, and began to rub her temples. It seems that Jason wasn't the only person having a tumultuous time.

"It's never a dull day with those lunkheads, you know?"

He made a slight smirk and turned back to the window, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

"Um, sorry about smoking in your home."

"Don't worry about it. As long you're near a window and not next to something explosive it's alright."

Jason nodded before looking back at the buildings.

"Big stink-fish?" asked Jason, "You're referring to Limburger?"

"Who else?" said Charley with ample disgust in her voice.

Jason turned back with a look of surprise. His tone punctuated with incredulity. "THE Lawrence Erasmus Limburger? Multi-billionaire philanthropist real-estate mogul? The obese father of Chicago's gentrification boom? Close personal friends with president Ronaldo Rump? He's called a hero of the city and you're telling me he's a fat stinking plutocratic fish-lizard alien?"

Jason paused momentarily. His features calming with realization.

"Actually, that makes a lot of sense now that you mention it. Huh."

Charley rolled her eyes.

"So," Jason continued, "since he's here, and the mice are here, I'm guessing he's the big bad guy in all this?"

"Big is an understatement, but yes. The media dresses him up like he's some good guy but it's a load of bunk! It's all a front for his real mission which is robbing our planet's resources to ship back to their home planet, maximizing their profit and reducing us into rubble!"

It looked like Charley was going into full diatribe mode. Both of her hands were clenched in a fist as she shook them in Jason's direction. There was an anger in her tone that made Jason feel uncomfortable. As he had noted earlier in that living room it would be wise not to piss this woman off.

"If it weren't for those three lunkheads in the next room opposing his every insane plan Chicago, my city, would be a scrap heap by now. His blockbusting tactics are the reason why all those buildings across the street are condemned, and also why the rest of this neighborhood has been bulldozed! Limburger sicced his goons on me countless times to intimidate me, to force me to sell my garage for pennies on the dollar, if those three hadn't of..."

Charley's voice trailed off. Her anger and disdain, at one moment white hot, had suddenly fizzled. She slumped on the mattress. She had a look of gratitude with a hint of melancholy, yet still she stared Jason right in the eyes. When she spoke again her voice held a tenderness to it that clashed with the earlier fury.

"...showed up, I would've sold it. I was born here. This place has been my whole life. There were good people who lived across that street. Kind neighbors. All of them are gone now. When my parent's passed away I carried on working the shop. _For pennies on the dollar, those scumbags wanted it_. I can tell you right now those three out there have saved this city more times than I can remember, they've saved me probably more times than I _care_ to remember. They are the real heroes of this city, not that dumpster-fire smelling slimeball Limburger."

Charley sighed again, her gaze directed to the floor.

There was a hanging silence.

 _Heroes_ , Jason thought. _That word gets thrown around far too often. And yet..._

Jason knew that eventually Charley had some questions that she wanted to ask him about what had happened earlier. Apparently his and Throttle's reaction to their little telepathic session was far out of the norm—if such a thing could be considered normal.

Jason decided to take the initiative.

"You're wondering what happened back there."

"I am," said Charley. "I don't remember throwing up immediately after Throttle shared his thoughts with me. And I don't think he had that same shocked expression either."

Jason made a humorless chuckle. An unusual thing Jason just noticed was that the dull throbbing headache of his concussion had disappeared.

"Well, I guess chugging a bottle of table wine and going on a mind-journey wasn't the best of combinations. But then again I've never experienced a... psychic? Exchange? Whatever it's called. But I think it was a good thing you got me out of there. Those other two thought I hurt the guy. The big gray one—what his name?"

"Modo?"

"It looked he wanted to kill me. I mean, his eye flashed red. His fucking eye!"

 _The dude looked strong enough to rip my spine out and beat me with it—just sayin'._

"Yeah... He calmed down pretty quick, though. You know, Modo is a really gentle guy; there's really only a few things that make him mad."

"I guess hurting one of his bros counts as one of those 'few things'."

"And hurting women, especially mothers, and children."

Jason winced. Then were was another short silence.

"How's the brown guy holding up? Is he OK?" he asked.

"Throttle? He seems pretty shook up, but I think he'll be alright. He refuses to talk about what happened, though. They all decided to stay here for the night, they're sleeping in the living room."

Jason winced again. Even though they didn't seem overtly hostile he still didn't trust them. Their secret, if you can call it that, was out. He felt if the three of them didn't trust him they might end up disposing of him. Bullet in the head, concrete shoes, maybe vaporized by lazer beam—the possibilities made him shudder with unease.

Another strange thing was the fact that he seemed to care enough about wanting to live.

"You said that Throttle did the same thing to you the first time you met them."

"Yes." Charley's expression turned to that of someone reliving a traumatic event. "It was horrible. I remember trying to keep calm afterwards, put up a brave face and act unfazed, but I still have nightmares over it. All those poor innocent people..."

Jason felt a pang of empathy for Charley. No one should ever have to experience such awful events, even as a detached observer. He felt a need to tell her the truth about who he was and how he felt of himself, but first he needed to have a question answered.

"Do the mice like music from this planet?" asked Jason.

Charley was taken aback by the apparent non-sequitur.

"Um... yes? All they listen to is hard rock. Where did that come from?"

"Well, when Throttle was telling his tale there was a song they played. It was a song I was very familiar with, a Rage Against the Machine song."

"That's strange," said Charley, "I don't really remember any music like that playing, and the memory still comes up crystal clear for me. It's like Throttle planted his memories in me or something."

"Well the song came up for me, I used to play it all the time when I was in Iraq. And then..." Jason paused. His expression was a thousand-yard stare, gazing at the opposite wall. "And then my memories took over. We were back in Fallujah, Phantom Fury, late 2004. It was pure hell, and I think Throttle wasn't ready to see first hand how we humans wage war."

A pit had opened in Jason's stomach. Iraq was where his faith in humanity had failed. It was the death of heroism, a sickening confusion and bewilderment and endless self-recrimination. They were things he always tried to tuck away, to hide beneath the surface or deep within the recesses of his memory but sometimes they would come bubbling back to the surface.

 _ **We shot to kill**_ **.**

War was cruelty, the absence of reason and in it's very center lie the root of human evil. To Jason he and his fellow marines took on the same role that the plutarkians had while on Mars: the oppressors—he wasn't fighting to defend his nation, instead he fought to gain power for a privileged few.

Jason turned his gaze back out at the city. Even though he couldn't see it, he knew beyond these decrepit buildings across the street lie the skyscrapers and glittering lights of Chicago, a beacon of civilization nestled in the dark blanket of nighttime middle America. Even in the gentle indifference of night life moved just like it did on Mars and just like it did in Fallujah. He could feel it. He did not take his gaze from the window as he continued, his voice distant and soft.

"We killed a lot of innocent people, Charley. Throttle got to see that and he didn't deserve to see that, even if they had attacked me earlier. I don't know what those mice think of humanity, but I bet that if they didn't know how awful we really are they probably do now."

Charley felt a need to reassure Jason. His anguish seemed overwhelming.

"It's not your fault," she said, "you did what you had to do to survive."

"'Did what I had to do to survive...'" Jason repeated ruefully. "I get told that all the time by people. They tell me I'm a hero, that I served the country, that what I did was beyond reproach because they _knew_ I was a good person, and when I try to tell them the truth they compartmentalize it, push it aside and tell me the same old bullshit."

 _Hero. Marine. Citizen. American. Wandering the dusty streets like giants, our joy was misery to others, our lust was for death. We killed without mercy. We loved the hypocritical lies we believed in wholeheartedly._

Jason leaned his shoulder against the wall, staring at the floor.

"They all tell me how sad and mournful they feel whenever they watch those boys and girls come back in caskets with flags draped over them, but they never tell me of the sorrow they feel for the families we bury under rubble over there."

Charley stood up and approached Jason with an outstretched hand in an attempt to offer some sort of succor. His head was still hung low, his face hidden from view.

Jason spoke again before she could reach him.

"Please, leave me alone."

Charley stood still for a moment more before she eventually dropped her hand and quietly began to leave the room. She stopped at the door.

"If you need anything, even just to talk, I'll be in the garage downstairs."

As she opened the door to leave she gave Jason one last momentary glance. He was still leaning against the wall with his face obscured. She saw him wipe away with his boot a few spattered tears that had fallen on the floor.

* * *

Odenton, Maryland, summer of 1996.

Jason sat with his older brother Daniel at the base of the old pine tree in the backyard. They had spent the day along with their youngest brother Brian playing with the other neighborhood kids. It was summer vacation. The days ran long, and each one was packed with wondrous adventure.

They all lived in the military housing that sat across the road from Ft. Meade, Maryland. The large two-family brick townhouses they resided in were products of a bygone era in residential planning. They were designed not so much for efficient space, but for community. Each building was arranged in a circle with a large yard in the middle. In the morning, after breakfast and cartoons the children would spill forth and meet up within easy view of the parents. Everyone knew everyone; the parents worked at the same places, the children went to the same classes in the same school. The husbands and wives who stayed at home would watch over the children as they played. They all moved through the same circadian rhythm.

People would always tell Jason that he looked just like his older brother, but he thought that it was only because they both had red hair. Danny had a longer face, and he didn't have freckles on his nose like Jason did. His eyes were a different shade of green, like a dark tourmaline. Also his hair was darker in hue, almost scarlet-like. In terms of personality, they couldn't be more different. Danny was almost preternaturally cool in disposition, he remained calm and collected; Jason was hotheaded, choleric and prone to impulsiveness. Despite their differences no one understood each other more than themselves. They never fought the other kids alone, they always had each other's backs.

It had been a long day and now the two brothers were relaxing and eating some popsicles they had bought with their weekly allowance from the ice cream truck. As the sun began to slide below the horizon, Jason fantasized about tomorrow. He was excited. He was going to ride with Danny for the first time at the nearby closed course.

As far back as they could remember the two brothers always wanted to ride, just like their daddy. Since Danny was the oldest by a year he was the first to get a solid white Honda Z50R on his 9th birthday, and he subsequently became to the coolest kid on the block. All the kids went to watch him ride around the neighborhood yards and everyone wanted to be his friend. Jason roiled with envy.

He had to wait another year until he was deemed 'old enough'—and for his father's pocketbook to sufficiently recover—before he could get his own motorcycle. During the wait he would constantly beg Danny to sit, or even ride the bike— _'just for a few short feet, please, please—_ _ **PLEASE**_ _.'_ Danny would always refuse, and would laugh at Jason as he raced around the backyards of the community, getting yelled at and sometimes chased by an enraged Mrs. Doreen who said the loud popping of the tiny four-stroke was giving her migraines.

Jason had wondered where Mrs. Doreen's husband was. He never actually saw him, and Mrs. Doreen always seemed to be alone. Maybe, he surmised, it was because she was so lonesome that chasing Danny or yelling at their father, or calling the MPs on them was her way of not being so lonely.

The police officers never really punished the kids, though; they instead kindly suggested to their father about taking the them to the nearby track where there was a small course for kids to ride their bikes and karts under proper supervision; much safer then being swatted by a broom while riding by the vicious Mrs. Doreen.

The cops then asked Danny to show off his riding skills, right in Mrs. Doreen's backyard—much to her chagrin.

Jason always looked up to his older brother. He always wanted to do what Danny did and he always wanted to beat him at whatever that thing they were doing was. This of course resulted in a lot of arguments, a lot of fights, bloody noses and scrapes; chastising from their stepmother and a wink from their father. Now Jason has his own bike that was painted in a brilliant solid black—his favorite color, and he wanted to prove to Danny he was the better rider even though he had never actually rode before. _But_ he did ride his bicycle all the time; it was pretty much the same thing.

"I'm gonna wup you on the track tomorrow," Jason said to his brother.

"In your dreams, punk. I been riding for a year! You got a long ways to go and you're never gonna catch up," scoffed Danny.

Jason was mad but since he couldn't find any retort he remained quiet and fumed, glaring at the brick wall of their home. After a few minutes his excitement for the coming day overrode his fury. He was so distracted in his thoughts that he failed to notice his neglected firecracker popsicle had melted.

Danny leaned himself back upon the tree's trunk, tossing his popsicle stick that he had been absentmindedly chewing.

"I asked dad what it meant to be a hero," said Danny.

Jason turned to look at his brother again. Danny was staring at the setting sky. It was awash in dramatic pinks and blues, like a panoramic sea of cotton candy.

"What'd he say?" asked Jason.

"He said a hero is someone who is always true to himself. He always does the right thing no matter the consequences. He has to be strong, so he can help out everyone else. And he never backs down or takes the easy way out. I asked dad if he was a hero and he said he couldn't call himself one—it wouldn't be right. To be a true hero, others have to call you that."

"Everyone calls dad a hero, though, so I guess that makes him a hero," said Jason.

Danny nodded sagely, seemingly satisfied with that answer. "When I grow up I wanna be a hero. I don't know what it takes, but I'm gonna find out." he said.

"Me too."

Jason looked over to the backdoor stoop. He saw the little girl. She stared at Jason with fear in her eyes, clutching the barbie doll tightly to her chest. A purple butterfly clip hanging from the side of her head, clasping onto a few loose strands of black hair.

Jason awoke in a darkened room.

The only source of light was the soft emanations from the curtained window nearby. He wasn't sure if it was early morning or evening. After a few minutes of finding his bearings he remembered that he was in the guest bedroom of Charley's apartment. He fumbled through the top of the adjacent nightstand, eventually finding his phone. Unplugging it from the charger he turned the screen on. The clock read 0630. He wasn't sure for how long he was asleep, but soon after Charley had left he promptly threw the bedding on the mattress in a haphazard fashion and collapsed on top. He was exhausted, both emotionally and physically, but now he couldn't sleep anymore.

As he started to get up a sharp pain shot through his left side. He remembered the bruises that covered him from the crash. He decided to lay awake in the bed for a little while longer, staring at the ceiling fan. His thoughts began to wander.

After a chance encounter he was unwittingly stuck in the epicenter of an alien insurgency, fighting in what seemed to be an incredible conflict between furry mice people from mars, evil capitalistic fish-reptile creatures and god knows what else, all over this small blue dot full of sociopath fur-less apes.

 _She called them heroes, those mice._

A burning shame spread through Jason's thoughts. He didn't want to be here anymore.

He wondered what would happen to him if he escaped from here, gone out and confessed to the first soul he saw what was happening.

 _Who would believe me if I were to say that Chicago is ground zero to an intergalactic war between furry martian mice people and plutocratic Chthonian lizard fish? It would be like saying that Ronald Rump is president. Which he is. Which is insane._

He doubted anyone would take him seriously. With no home and no ride people would assume he was a vagrant and probably have him committed to an asylum. He decided to abandon that thought, going back to the dream that was still fresh in his memory.

It was an old memory, a fond memory. It was of a time when things were simple and the future was an unknown but bright thing.

 _Of course it was simple—you were a kid. Everything seemed simple as a kid._

While Jason didn't believe in fate or premonition he found the timing of that particular dream uncanny. He remembered that declaration Danny made to be a hero. He so wanted to be like his older brother, and to be a hero just like daddy. He always followed in Danny's footsteps, and it seemed like he was always a step behind. From that humble Z50r Jason upgraded to a black Ninja 250, the same bike his brother got, but his was white. They would race late at night on the streets, taking on all comers. From the 250's came larger and more powerful machines. The roads turned into quarter-miles and closed tracks. They would never race for pink-slips, only bragging rights, and they both always won. But Jason could never beat Danny in a head-to-head, and while the other kids would call Jason _King of the Streets_ they would title Danny _The Emperor_. They were both heroes of speed and tenacity to their rivals, but not _true_ heroes. Eventually they were both offered opportunities to race semi-pro by several race teams, but neither accepted. They were set on service, like their father.

 _ **I was always second.**_

It was why he joined the Marines at 17, a year after his brother did. They both went infantry, and they both served tours in Iraq. Danny would come home first, and Jason remembered how much he had changed. The calm and collected older brother had a darker edge to him, and Jason knew he would also go through that same transformation.

What surprised both of them was when Brian declared that he, too was joining the Marines. Jason remembered it was during his father's funeral. The sorrow while watching the Marine detail give one last salute to dad before they lowered the casket. He couldn't imagine that only a few more years after Brian would be getting his own salute.

 _Oh god, poor Brian..._

Agony began to course through him. Jason clenched his fists to his chest as he fought through old familiar feelings: pain, guilt and worthlessness.

Brian gave up on his dreams to be tough like his stepbrothers. And for that want he died.

He could feel the hot tears start to form. He never had the chance to tell Brian that he loved him, and that he was the kindest brother with a heart bigger than the world, and now he was gone forever.

Death followed Jason at every turn. From that young man on the street, to that little girl, to Sgt. Brooks, to his father and Brian and stepmother—

 _And that is why you are worthless. You ran; you left behind everything and sold it off and you ran like a coward. Too tired to live and too scared to die. You drink to numb the pain and you keep on riding, looking for a peace you will never find. King of the Fucking Streets. And in the presence of real heroes you wilt like a dandelion in the face of their righteous cause._

Jason sat up from the bed, fighting to regain self-control. His head was pounding again. He was so very thirsty.

Slowly he dressed and made his way out of the room, taking a short glance at his few belongings laid out next to the bookshelf. He noted the black case.

 _Fucking saxophone._

Outside the room he could vaguely see two of the mice in the living room. Through the darkness he couldn't make out definite details; he assumed the very large one splayed out on the couch snoring like a chainsaw bogged in molasses was Modo. His limbs jutted lazily in every direction. The other, slightly smaller form he wasn't sure of; he was resting on an inflatable mattress, twitching uncomfortably. Whoever it was it looked like they were having a bad dream. There was another unoccupied mat, the bedding tossed aside.

Jason made his way to the kitchen and opened the door to the old-fashioned refrigerator. It's contents inside consisted of Lean Cuisine meals, hot-dogs and a large pot of chili. There was also a lone bottle of rootbeer.

 _Well, it's not an actual beer, but beggars can't be choosers._

As he took the last bottle out he felt like an ungrateful guest. Charley had been nothing short of a magnanimous host to his unexpected visit. He bet that having these three around must be very stressful at times. As he walked back out of the kitchen he noticed the light coming out of the bottom of the nearby door that led to the garage. Charley must be awake.

 _I should talk to her, to apologize again._

* * *

 _So that finishes this goddamn chapter. I know I promised some romance but this was starting to get a bit long and I feel like I should keep the anguish and self-pity contained in this one chapter before jumping over the 'good stuff'. I always feel like I'm second guessing myself here in regards to building up the character of Jason. I guess because he's an OC he needs some backstory to establish who he is moreso than the characters from the cartoon—but I feel like it's all misery and death and woe, almost to a point where it's becoming onerous like a turgid passion play trying to be all edgy. It's a delicate thing, balancing introspection with plot. If you guys think I'm being too heavy-handed here let me know._

 _Also, PTSD is a very serious issue, and Jason has loads of it. It is an insidious mental illness that has touched the lives of so many people all over the world. It is a theme that I also want to explore more. I think that all of the characters in the story have it to an extent: the bros have been in a long and brutal war and so has Jason; I find it to be a common link. There's a lot of different directions I want to take this story and trying to make the whole thing run smoothly has been... difficult._

 _Also I want to start getting into who the biker mice mistook Jason for. It's kind of important since it's the whole reason Jason is in his current predicament._

 _And I'm gonna write some more about motorcycles. Because I love them._

 _As for songs I listened to while writing this chapter is "Pain" and "The Strangest Thing" by The War on Drugs—both flat out amazing tunes with definite emotional heft. I highly recommend anyone to hop on over on google and look em up and give a listen, just awesome stuff. Also I brought up Rage Against the Machine again, one of the greatest hard rock bands of all time. Yeah._

 _If you like to leave a comment and want me to respond you're gonna have to create an account. Sadly I can't respond to guest comments directly. That being said I hope you, dear reader, enjoyed this mess I am making. Please leave any comments or critiques._


	5. THE TOUCH

**CHAPTER 5: THE TOUCH  
**

 **Charlene "Charley" Davidson**

 **Age** : late-20's

 **Occupation** : Mechanic, insurgent (or freedom fighter, depending on who is asked)

 **Marital Status** : Painfully single

 **Next of kin** : N/A

Charley was, for lack of a better word, stressed. This was a rather normal thing for her to feel. Ever since that fateful moment when the mice stepped (or in Vinnie's case, slid) into her life almost every day has been a series of adrenaline-fueled escapades, kidnappings, escapes, and bad guy beat-downs.

Stress was the normal, the uneventfully eventful if that makes any sense.

It's not that she _hates_ how her life has irrevocably changed, in fact it has been an incredible experience. But everyday on a roller coaster can get exhausting, and a girl needs her alone time.

 _Alone._

That's exactly what Charley was before all this. She grew up in the Garage, she didn't really keep many close friends throughout her youth. Even handsome and cool Jack McCyber couldn't pry her from the shell that was the Garage.

She only truly felt at home among the many machines she worked on. To her, these things were works of art and the art was in their operation. If it functioned as it was drawn up then it was a beautiful thing. Gadgets, tools, appliances, cars—these were things she loved, but what she loved most was the motorcycle. Sportbikes, cruisers, dual sports, dirtbikes; she loved them all, and she loved to ride.

She had learned her craft and how to ride from the best: her father and she in turn became probably the best mechanic this side of the Mississippi, at least that is what her loyal customers would say: 'the apple didn't fall far from the tree' and all that. After her parents passed, she inherited the Last Chance Garage and figured that was where she would stay until the end of her days.

 _Alone._

Alone among the tools and the parts. Buried in the technical manuals; covered in the grime and grease; hidden under hoods and tucked beside frames. Isolated, stagnant.

Her human interaction was limited to her customers and to Limburger's goons. Besides that, sun-up to down she was working. It was an escape; it was her element, and she would lose herself in her own little world. Sure, she had been asked on a date a myriad of times but she could never hold a relationship longer than a week or two—relationships were complicated, her work was not. She would often fantasize about men being as simple and straightforward as a small-block Chevy V8. Just a simple tune-up now and then, and endlessly reliable. She often noted to herself that this was not a healthy way to think.

When the mice had arrived everything got turned on its head and she was ripped from that shell. Before, she would hardly leave the Garage. Now she was on strange adventures all across the country, one time on another planet, and using her wits and know-how and occasionally guts and brawn to help the guys defeat evil. It felt like everything that happened to her before she met the mice was like a dream, and only now that she had awoken could she feel truly _alive_. And she was no longer alone.

Yet, in a sense, she still was.

It was a different kind of alone, the waking up in bed with no one else kind of alone.

And it was this lonesomeness that she was feeling along with all kinds of other feelings that currently stressed her as she sat hunched over the remains of Jason's wrecked bike. It's appearance alone was a disconcerting reminder of the violence of his crash. The once fearsome looking beast of a machine now rested its twisted carcass on a suspending lift. The whole underside frame of the bike bent upwards in a jagged angle, the point of impact with a light pole. The front wheel had been sheared from it's fork. The matte black paint was scraped and gouged out from where the bike had slid on the asphalt. The right handlebar had also disappeared.

It was totaled.

Charley had tried to sleep after her talk with the new unexpected guest, but she couldn't get more than a few hours of fitful rest. In frustration she went back to the garage. On top of everything else, the garage was also her therapist's couch. She could think through things better as she worked alone.

And usually she would be alone except for the fact that Vinnie was sitting on a mechanic's seat behind her, being a handsome distraction. He claimed that he wanted to help Charley with her work—that help consisted of reading the latest issue of _Motorcycle Insanity_ and making small talk while passing her tools with his prehensile tail. She wouldn't mind it so much except for the fact that he kept handing her the wrong tools. And turned on the radio a tad too loud. And kept making 'oohs' and 'ahhs' while staring at the magazine like it was a porno.

"Socket wrench, fourteen millimeter with the six-inch extension." said the mechanic.

"Here ya go, beautiful." Vinnie handed her a ball-peen hammer.

Charley sighed, putting the hammer aside and reaching over to the toolbox herself.

"So as I was sayin', this thing is called the X-Diavel, it's Italian for 'Devil'. I gotta be honest, it's a pretty rad lookin' bike. This Jason guy must have a lot of cash, though, this thing is not cheap." Vinnie peered from behind the magazine to catch a glimpse of the wreck. "What a shame, though. I would have loved to give that beauty a spin and see what it could do with a _real_ rider." Vinne then put the magazine down, pointing a thumb at himself while making a macho pose, smirking and wiggling his eyebrows at Charley with a gratuitous attempt at looking suave.

Charley turned to look at the white mouse with a less than pleased look, rolling her eyes and sighing.

"Yeah, it was a real shame," she retorted, "that you meatheads chased him all around the city and then forced him to crash, almost killing him. And furthermore, from what Modo and Throttle told me, he was giving you, a ' _real_ rider' _,_ fits. So much so that you had to break out your bike's special features—features that he sorely lacked on his more mundane machine—in order to catch up."

Vinnie wilted at her remarks, slumping his shoulders, his antennae drooping over his forehead.

"Yeah. We... kinda screwed that up, huh?" he said sheepishly. He looked crestfallen.

"You sure did. How did you guys manage to confuse him with that guy at the distillery?"

Vinnie hunched forward on his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his left hand pressed up under his chin, his right hand absentmindedly feeling the metal plating that covered that side of his face. Charley knew Vinnie always did that while lost in thought, it was a nervous tic of his. She was curious and also fearful to know why.

"From what we saw of him that night he looked just like the other guy. Same bike, same clothes, same color helmet..." Vinnie started to stare off into space, lost in his recollection. When he spoke again he had a meek tone. "You know, Charley, that sometimes in those moments when the rubber meets the road you gotta make snap decisions. We all agreed he was the guy." He looked back at her with an unreadable expression. "You try to make the best choice with what you know and in this case we made the wrong one. Mistakes like that are always the hardest. I'm glad he's more or less OK. If he'd have gotten seriously hurt..."

He stared at the ground with a look of regret. "Those are always the moments that stick with you, they _never_ go away..."

Charley had known Vinnie long enough to make note of all his quirks and eccentricities. While at times he would act childish and overly macho to the point of chauvinism, he also showed a tenderness and thoughtful maturity that belied his adrenaline-junkie persona. He was a far more complicated person than first impressions would imply.

It made her heart flutter.

 _What are you thinking, girl? Now you find yourself falling for space mice? I mean, sure, they're all kinda hunky and Vinnie has got a cute butt—RED LIGHT, **RED LIGHT**!_

Charley bit her lower lip and turned back to the remains of Jason's bike in an attempt to conceal her blush. A warmth had begun to radiate throughout her body.

Never in her wildest dreams would she find herself attracted to a large, bipedal sentient alien mouse person like Vinnie, but here she was, doing just that. Maybe it was her relative seclusion from the outside world, maybe it was all the time they had spent together.

All three of the guys gave her momentary flights of fancy. Throttle was cool and calm, an assertive manliness tempered by an emphatic core—a near perfect leader, but he already had another woman in his life—Carbine, who would probably burn down half of Chicago at the slightest hint of infidelity.

Modo was large and virile with a very kind, gentle soul. A real sweetheart. All his scars and his missing parts only adding to that contrasting personality of his. Who could not fall for a guy who loves kids and cute animals? Charley had thought often of making a pass at him, but since he never made much of a pass at her she felt that maybe he wasn't interested and she didn't want to cause any potential harm to their current friendship.

And then there was Vinnie. He would constantly flirt with Charley, constantly brag about his mojo and his lady-killer status and good looks, flexing and wagging his eyebrows. He would always chase after Charley, but never make the catch. She wondered if Vinnie was afraid to open up to her, like he had done with Harley. Afraid to lose someone like that again.

She couldn't concentrate on the wrecked bike anymore. She needed a break.

With a frustrated groan she stood from her spot and took a seat on the couch next to her working desk. In theory the purpose of the desk was to serve as a spot for clerical work, filing repair orders and bills of lading, in practice it ended up being a highly inefficient landfill. Every scrap of paper, post-it and food wrapping possible was piled carelessly on top. She wasn't sure the last time she had seen the actual wood of the desktop. Sometimes while doing some work on the computer she swore she could hear sounds of wildlife emanating from the pile, like crickets chirping, owls hooting and wolves howling.

Somewhere in that jungle of tree carcasses lay her computer and the one good coffee mug. It had a picture of a poorly drawn Shibe Inu dog sticking its tongue out with the word 'bepis' written in comic sans. Vinnie gave it to her as a present last Christmas, around the time he started to get obsessed over 'memes'. It was the only time she wanted to hit the white mouse with a tire iron.

Relaxing on the couch she leaned back and laid her head on the top cushions, staring at the ceiling.

"I need a vacation," she muttered.

Vinnie sat himself on the other side with an arm draped around the backrest of the couch. Charley couldn't help but sneak a glance at his lean, toned abs and chest.

 _Why doesn't he ever wear a shirt?_ She thought.

"So what are you gonna do with his bike?" asked Vinnie.

"Sell it off as scrap. It's a total wreck. If I were to fix it up I would have to replace so many parts that I would be rebuilding a whole new bike from scratch. I'll figure something out." She looked back at Vinnie.

"I always wondered," said Charley, "how did you guys end up knowing so much about the culture of our planet and people?"

Vinnie shrugged. "Well, the Plutarkians really messed us up when they invaded. They destroyed most of our cities, killed a whole bunch of us and really screwed up our environment. With that also went a lot of our pre-war culture and entertainment. It's kinda hard to make new movies and music while at the same time struggling to survive, so we ended up listening in on your planet's stuff. It made life a little more livable. At least that's what Modo and Throttle tell me... I was too young to remember life before the war."

"That's awful..." Charley felt an overwhelming pity for the Martian people. The images of Throttle's memories were seared into her own, she will never forgive the Plutarkians for what they done. She reached out and touched Vinnie's outstretched hand with hers. Vinnie looked at her with a soft expression.

"I mean, it's not that big a deal to me, babe, the whole culture thing. I guess it's because I don't really feel the loss of something I never really had. Instead, I am knowledgeable about fruit roll-ups and Air Jordans and Saturday morning cartoons. I'm a 90's kid." Vinnie chuckled. "It's kind of funny though, these things I like are seen back home as rebellious, in direct contradiction of 'Martian Cultural Values'" Vinnie made air quotes as he mockingly said that last phrase, "and that's kind of part of what the freedom fighters are all about, bucking the system, you know? So they were kinda who the bros and I ended up fitting in with the most. And they all liked bikes and thought earth babes were super hot-"

Vinnie caught himself after letting that last detail slip, scrunching up and putting both hands over his muzzle, his eyes had a definite fear in them.

Charley made a surprised face before it turned into a mischievous grin. "So you _do_ think I'm pretty and you're not just playing around?"

Vinnie started to blush, stumbling and fumbling out an explanation. "I-I mean, you know—steady diet of earth culture, standards of beauty, uh, I—I mean, you know, sex sells, by the gods and Santa Claus!"

Charley remembered that the mice thought of Santa Claus as a deity, like an earth counterpart to Rav-Sheeba, the Martian Goddess of annual gift giving and retribution. The themes are more or less the same, except Rav-Sheeba would ride through the night skies on a cosmic flame. She would reward good pups with a sack of candied Martian sugared blood-berries and would punish bad pups by encasing them in a solid iron sphere and launch them into the sun via a giant sling.

There were some aspects of Martian culture that Charley found very strange. Then again there are websites here in America dedicated to looking at tractors in mud.

Charley had the poor white mouse in his most vulnerable state. It was time to go in for the kill.

"Hey," she said, staring at Vinnie with a cruel smile, "remember the time you dropped your wallet?"

"Aw geez, don't remind me," Vinnie had at this point began to slowly stuff himself into the back corner of the couch's upholstery.

Charley started to giggle. "When I picked it up I expected to see pictures of all kinds of girls you had been with, but all I saw were your baby photos..."

"C'mon! Can we talk about something else? You're killin' me!"

"I thought to myself: 'who keeps photos of themselves as a baby? That's the kind of stuff moms do!'"

Vinnie had both hands over his face in a helpless attempt at shielding himself from further humiliation, it was a painfully embarrassing subject for him to relive. "If you keep on talking about this, I'm gonna have to shut you up."

"-and then you tried to grab the wallet back from me and you slipped and fell on your butt!" Charley was now beside herself with fits of laughter.

"That's it!" Vinne had enough. With a growl he pounced on the human woman, trying to close her mouth with his hands. Charley tussled and wrestled under his weight, his body pressed against hers on the couch, still giggling and mock fighting the white mouse.

"You h-had no hair as a baby! You looked so silly in that diaper-" Suddenly she stopped her laughter as her eyes locked onto Vinnie's. He had an almost stunned look as he stared back at the human woman, like an bolt of current had coursed through his body.

In their struggle her back ended up against the couch cushions, with Vinnie on top, her legs open wide, their hips locked together, his muzzle almost touching her lips. She could feel his hot breath, excited and slightly rapid. It smelled like mint and something else unidentifiable. Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

Slowly she raised her hands and placed them on either side of Vinnie's head. In one hand she felt warm soft fur, the other caressed his metal mask. Suddenly the white mouse leaned forward and pressed his lips against Charley's. The shape of Vinnie's muzzle and thin lips made an odd fit to Charley's, but he managed to find purchase with his tongue as it entered Charley's mouth. Her initial surprise quickly turned to lust as she melted upon contact like butter on a frying pan. Her short agile tongue began to intertwine with Vinnie's, she explored his mouth as he did hers, searching each other's depths.

 _RED LIGHT, RED LIGHT, **RED LIGHT**_

His hands began to wander lower, sliding over Charley's body. As he touched her breasts she moaned into his mouth.

 _Ok, green light..._

She was losing control in the moment, and it was wonderful. It felt like the floodgates had opened and she was awash in ecstasy. The static discharged through her body. She felt ancient urges bubble to the surface. There was no turning back-

Jason coughed.

* * *

 _Right. As I somewhat promised, here's some of that romance stuff. To be honest, I don't feel very... confident that I got it 'right', per se. Romance is hard to write in a good way, it's something I haven't written much of. I feel comfortable with action, with emotion, but love is rather hard to come across sincerely. Please, let me know if this is something you, dear readers, have enjoyed and want more of, because it's a challenge I am actually excited to meet—it's hard and thus it has to be good._

 _Anyways, the song for this chapter is 'No Reply' by Genesis, a catchy, poppy little tune that's fun to listen to._

 _The xDiavel is a muscle bike by Ducati, and it is a machine from a category of motorcycles known as power-cruisers or musclebikes. I love 'em, super beefy super fast bikes. All musclebikes are generally super cool, and the xDiavel is the perfect represenation of it's genre. When I save up enough it is among many other makes and models I am considering buying._

 _Next chapter will really start the whole 'what is going on' phase, and hopefully I'll have it done by the end of next week. Thanks for whoever is still reading this awful thing!_


	6. DISTANCES

_Hello! So I know I said about a month ago that I would have this story up within a week. Yeah, I'm a jerk. Sorry about that! I been busy with life, going on rides, overtime, family and friendship. It's been pretty busy! So here's the next chapter, it's got a lot of words in it and a whole lot of plot. Also, all the characters, songs, corporations and stuff mentioned are not mine. Also malort is terrible._ _ **On a side note**_ _: yes, I understand that in the show the age given to Charley and her mousey friends was their early 20's, but I have decided to write them as older-around late 20's to early 30's. I think that allows them to connect better as war-weary veterans, a theme I was planning on writing about later on._

* * *

 **CHAPTER 6: DISTANCES**

 _All this way to connect_

 _All the way back_

 _And all the way to the corner everyday_

 _You were there for me_

 _But will you wait for the ones who disappear?_

 _-_ 'Disappearing', by The War On Drugs

* * *

 **Jason "King of the Streets" McMahon**

 **Age:** early-30's

 **Occupation:** loser, nobody

 **Marital Status:** N/A

 **Next of Kin:** N/A

 **Outlook on Life:** N/A

Charley and Vinnie had uncoupled themselves as if they were made of lava the second Jason made his presence known, rapidly shifting to opposite ends of the couch and looking like children caught taking cookies from the pantry. Vinnie sat as straight as a yardstick, his hands strategically placed over his lap for the purpose of concealment. He had acquired a rather sudden obsessive interest in a nearby crack in the floor. Charley stared at Jason with a look of pleasant surprise, with only the surprise part feeling sincere. Her hair was tussled a bit, and her skin was flushed red.

"Oh, hey there!" said Charley, over-enthusiastically while wiping a shirtsleeve over her mouth, "It's good to see you up! How are you feeling?"

Jason stood at the open door that led to the apartment above. In one hand he held the last bottle of rootbeer from the fridge.

"I'm... alright." said Jason. "I was kind of thirsty and since this was last one in the fridge-"

"-that's quite fine, it's all yours!"

"Thanks, and I, uh-" Jason stopped mid-sentence as soon as he laid eyes on what remained of his bike. His face contorted into a look of shock, then sorrow as he paced over to it. His slight limp was noticeably absent.

"Jesus..." he muttered as he laid a hand on the dented fuel tank. It was a sad thing for him to see. During his scamper from the east coast that bike had become the only thing he had any care for even if it was a care to ensure that it took him to his inevitable destination. Still, he felt regret; it was a wonderful bike.

Charley walked over to where Jason stood and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Once again, we're sorry," she said.

"I know," said Jason.

"How did it sound?" asked Charley.

"Brutal and beautiful. Brutiful," said Jason, not taking his eyes of the hulk. "If the Italians can do one thing they can make a machine sing. I heard they're pretty good at cooking, too, and art or something."

Jason's short period of mourning broke when he started to observe his surroundings. As cramped as the apartment above seemed the garage was massive and immaculate save the nearby desk that was covered in paperwork, looking like a landfill.

All around were cars and motorcycles arranged on lifts and stands and some parked in marked lots. Most vehicles were in a state of disassembly, some finished and marked for return to customer. There were several startlingly rare and expensive models: an old '69 Charger R/T with a 440 and brilliant orange paint; a grim and blacked out '87 Buick GNX; a classic silver and blue Honda CB750 with that incredible transverse inline-four—the first superbike.

Next to it rested a gorgeous first generation Harley Davidson VRSCA in it's iconic liquid metal shape and color—it reminded Jason of a muscle-bound mafia thug in a skin-tight aluminum foil three-piece suit. Then there was the Confederate, an R131 Fighter—to the ignorant it looked like an unfinished bike, all the parts and frame and wheels but no fairings, and they would be undoubtedly shocked to hear it costs over a hundred-thousand dollars.

For customers to trust Charley with such rare and expensive machines lent a lot of credence to her earlier claims of being the 'best damn mechanic', at least in the Midwest.

 _A mechanic and her alien mice._

A grin started to spread across Jason's face, which turned into a smile. Charley and Vinnie exchanged worried glances when he started to giggle.

 _He's losing it,_ Vinnie mouthed to the mechanic.

Jason's giggling turned into long peals of laughter, he doubled over, holding his sides, fighting for air as his laughter turned into bellowing guffaws. Vinnie sat at the edge of the couch, eyeing Jason warily, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. Eventually, the laughter died down. Taking long, labored breaths and wiping tears from his eyes, he looked at Charley and Vinnie with a happy face. It was the first time either of them had seen an authentic smile from the red-headed man. They both found it unsettling.

"Are you ok?" asked Charley.

" _clearly not, looks like he needs to be put in a straitjacket_ " Vinnie muttered under his breath.

"Will you **shut up**?" Charley threw several dirty rags at the white mouse, who in turn caught them while making an insincere apologetic shrug.

"No, no, it's ok. I'm fine, I guess" said Jason while holding up a hand, "It's just—I thought it funny, you know, like as a kid I often wondered what alien life was gonna be like, if aliens were even real. Would it be like how they do it in Star Trek, or in the Alien movies? Would we or they even be able to understand one another? How would we interact? My brother and I would stare at the stars in the night sky and wonder these things out loud to each other. Never in my wildest dreams would I think that my first contact would be bipedal mice people with antennae and shit who love motorcycles and one of them is knocking boots with a mechanic from Chicago!"

Vinnie looked like he wanted to slink into the back corner of the couch somewhere between the cushions and disappear. Charley's blush had turned to the color and intensity of a stop light.

Jason looked at both of them again, his smile now lessened, but his expression carrying a warmth and slight tenderness.

"But I guess love finds a way," he said.

 _They must think I'm crazy,_ Jason thought. _What the hell else can I do?_ _I've lost everything. I might as well have a laugh. And a drink. God am I thirsty._

Jason unscrewed the bottle's cap and took a long pull. It tasted like—big surprise—rootbeer. Really good rootbeer, that is. He then noticed that Vinnie was staring at him with an upset expression, probably because of his cock-blocking.

On first impressions Jason did not like Vinnie. He regarded him with a measure of awe and fear, remembering the feral, wild looking martian on that dark city street. His red eyes burned with a fury and rage that was terrifying in the moment. Also there was the not so insignificant fact that the white mouse rode on the sides of buildings in defiance of nature's will. That was amazing to Jason; he had never seen or dreamed of such skill at riding. Now that the same wild mouse now under normal light he looked almost pitiable curling into the couch, and there Jason found himself: laughing at him. It had been a very embarrassing morning for Vinnie.

In a sense Vinnie reminded Jason of his younger self: wild and impulsive, passionate, immature; probably the main reason for his dislike because he _hated_ himself. Then he noted the metal mask the mouse wore over half his face. He felt the scars on his own body from the years of violence, and remembered the visions he received from Throttle, things that Vinnie too must have experienced. As silly and ignorant as Vinnie seemed to act, Jason knew he was not naive. He remembered his own war, and it certainly left an impression on him.

"...so you saw and heard everything, then?" asked Charley flatly.

 _Of course I did. And after the shock wore off it touched something inside me. Not sure what, but I feel almost... happy? I haven't felt this way in so long I'm almost scared._

"Yep," said Jason. "And I don't care. To be honest, I think it's kinda adorable. I stood at the door for the longest time listening in on your conversation. I decided to make myself known when you two stopped talking. Seems I walked in at the worst or best possible moment. Just as you guys were about to swallow each other's faces and-"

"Alright, I get it, please just stop!" yelled Vinnie, who was currently in the middle of shoving a couch cushion over his ears in an attempt to block his hearing. To get his ego bashed by one of his closest most trusted friends was bad enough for Vinnie, but to be ribbed by a near total stranger was pure agony.

Jason chuckled again. "You know what, though? I feel pretty relieved. Despite what you said to me earlier, Charley, I still had my doubts and fears about what you all had intended for me. I was a coin-flip from running away the first chance I had—that's why I was standing in the door eavesdropping. This, however, this is just too precious-"

Vinnie hurled the couch cushion at Jason, who batted it away all the while smiling like a Cheshire cat. This was the first time Jason felt good about anything in a long while, he felt young again. If it was to be a momentary thing he wanted it to last for as long as possible. He had some humor back, and he wanted to needle the white mouse with it. Jason changed his tone to a mawkish warble.

"Aww, that was the cutest little throw I ever did see~"

"One more word out of you and you're a dead human!" Vinnie was now standing, glaring at Jason. His eyes flashed a with that same burning intensity Jason saw back on the streets, but Jason was no longer afraid.

Pressing both of his hands to his head he made a mock surprise face at Charley, who in turn was starting to break out in laughter herself.

"Please don't hurt me Mr. Mouse, I only want to celebrate the love you have for this modest human mechanic. Hey! I just thought up a song to sing!"

Vinnie gnashed his teeth in a snarl. Jason noticed how similar they looked to human teeth, except for the elongated incisors and slightly pronounced canines.

In a sing-song voice Jason began:

" _Vinnie and Charley, layin' on the couch:_ _ **F-U-C-K-I-N**_ _-_ "

"THAT'S IT! **YOU'RE DEAD MEAT, PUNK**!"

The white mouse charged at Jason.

"Here, hold my beer," laughed Jason, handing the beverage to Charley moments before being spear-tackled by Vinnie. Charley was unsure if she wanted to separate the two, collapse in laughter or dump the remaining contents of the rootbeer bottle onto Jason's face.

The two rolled around the garage floor, locked in a fierce struggle. Vinnie was clearly overpowering Jason, who continued to laugh and tease.

"Ooh, you're so strong~ _Will you carry me to the couch and_ _ **ravish**_ _me, too~_?"

"I'm gonna shove that bottle of rootbeer in your mouth to shut you up!"

"The only thing that'll make me shut up is if you were to kiss me with those sweet lips while showing me your baby photos~"

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

Jason was now trapped in a somewhat sloppy rear naked choke. Only by tucking his chin inside Vinnie's forearm was he able to keep his breathing and blood flowing to his head. Despite the stalemate, he continued his mocking.

"I can feel you hard biceps pressing against me oooh~"

Charley was laughing hysterically while making halfhearted attempts to talk Vinnie down from his rage.

"Vinnie—stop—please—" she struggled out between fits.

"What the hell is going on here?" said Throttle.

In an instant the struggling ceased as everyone turned to look at the slightly disheveled tan mouse who stood past the doorway, arms crossed. Towering behind him with a look of concern stood Modo.

"Do you need any help, bro?" the grey-furred mouse asked Vinnie.

"Yeah, I need you gag this bastard because he won't shut his piehole."

"Get off of him, Vinnie," chuckled Throttle.

"But he was being a real jerk makin' fun of me! Can I at least knock him out? Only for a few-"

"I said: get off." Throttle's tone took on a harsher edge.

With an exasperated groan Vinnie released his choke-hold on Jason and stood up and aside. Jason stayed on the ground, turning on his side and looking back at the white mouse while fashioning a hand in the shape of a telephone.

"Call me, boo-boo?" he said while making puppy-dog eyes.

Vinnie made a move to lunge back onto the prone human but was stopped by Throttle who had in a flash stepped in-between.

"Calm down," he said to Vinnie in a hard tone. The white mouse gave Jason a bitter look, but relented. With his shoulders hung he slunk back to Charley's side, his tail flicking in an agitated state. _This isn't over_ he mouthed to Jason.

"Up you go, mister" said Modo as he lifted Jason to his feet. He made a mental note that despite weighing over two hundred pounds the one-eyed mouse had picked him up as like he was made of paper.

"So," said Throttle, turning to Jason and adjusting his shades, "I see you're making new friends fast. Looks like you're feeling better, too."

"I do, kind of, I _feel_ better physically. Wait-" The pain from his injuries had gone. Jason lifted his shirt collar and looked at his skin underneath. The deep bruising he had earlier had all but disappeared. "W-what the hell?" he said shocked.

"Martian stimpacks," said Charley.

"Stim-what?"

"A chemical cocktail made for quick-healing; accelerates your body's natural regenerative processes." Charley produced what looked like a small syringe from a pack attached to her belt. "When they brought you in from that wreck you were in pretty bad shape. Separated shoulder, deep concussion, hip-pointer. We gave you a shot of this stuff to save you a trip to the hospital."

"All that healed in a couple hours?"

"Yep. It's what we use for the minor stuff. Keeps us on our feet and on the move while we battle the big stink-cheese and his flunkies" said Throttle.

"Have you, you know, thought about selling this stuff to a pharmaceutical? I mean, this could revolutionize healthcare!"

"And let them sell it to the people at insanely marked up prices? Nah, besides, we're limited in our stock, and this stuff doesn't heal everything. Also, it has side effects. Feeling hungry?"

"I could eat," said Jason. _I could eat a fucking house._ As soon as Throttle had asked him the deprivations of the last couple days hit all at once. Jason's stomach felt like it was trying to turn itself inside out. He began to wonder what his t-shirt would taste like.

"Getting super hungry is one of the effects," said Modo, "the other is sudden cardiac arrest."

"Gee, that's rather nice."

"Anyways," said Throttle, "I think it's time we got some grub. What do you got for breakfast, Charley-girl?"

"Chilidogs. It's always chilidogs..." sighed Charley as she handed Jason back his rootbeer.

"Aw yeah!" the trio of mice yelled in unison.

As Jason walked with Modo and Throttle back upstairs he gave a quick glance behind at Vinnie and Charley. They were not following but standing still, holding hands and giving each other meaningful looks. As they began to close their distance from each other Jason turned back and moved onward, a smile on his face.

* * *

To Jason, Chicago was a strange city. It's not only from the circumstance that he found himself in, or even the city's culture and history that he already knew of—it was the cuisine. It seemed like the food that this city was famous for was created by enraged, depressed people. New York, for example, is famous for it's pizza that's often served in large, foldable slices. Chicago's interpretation is a morass of dough and cheese and sauce shoved into a garbage can lid. Anyone who walks into Pequod's will see such monstrous abominations eaten by it's patrons in varying levels of self-loathing. Baltimore—Jason's hometown—has crabcakes, lake trout, police brutality, gang murders and heroin addiction. Chicago's idea of seafood is being tossed into lake Michigan by a bunch of drunken River North dullards after they misinterpret you saying "oh, that's the city of Chicago flag" for "oh, Doug Atkins was a fag." Philadelphia has the cheesesteak, a meal made to clog arteries and best used when hurled from the stands at referees during an Eagles game. In Chicago they drench their sandwiches in sauce, making it too messy to eat with hands and utterly ruining its purpose as a sandwich and angering the consumer, all according to plan.

And then there is the hotdog. Most places treat the hotdog exactly as it should be treated: a thing at your friend's cookout that is second to the hamburger and often served with mustard and ketchup and if you're a bit on the wild side, some relish. In Chicago they will angrily chuck you a hotdog with the entire produce section of a grocery store crammed on top. It is the landmark meal of the city, and it is a subject not to be discussed lightly.

And yet here was Jason, eating chilidogs.

It's not that Jason didn't like chilidogs; he just found them... 'meh'. He saw it for most of his life as a mediocre food, but he would eat one almost weekly back in his former home-place. The reason for it was simple nostalgia. In Maryland, nestled between the town of Glen Burnie and the unincorporated suburban sprawl of Pasadena was Ann's Dari-Creme. The best way to describe this establishment would be a claustrophobic diner. It has existed for almost seventy years against the grain in American business culture.

To Jason, Ann's was a bulwark, a thing that had withstood the rise and fall of opposing corporate empires, the test of time. Marley Station Mall was built next to the diner, and had tried on multiple occasions to buy it out, but Ann's held resolute. Now, with the advent of mega malls like Arundel Mills, and the establishment of online ordering, the smaller regional malls have started to die off, and Marley was simply yet another victim of changing economic tides.

He remembered the malls as a kid; packed full of life; the parking lots crowded and often full. Now the crowds had vanished; these old towering monuments to consumption now empty, crumbling shells of their former, resplendent selves. And through it all, Ann's still stands, unbowed, unchanged. It was the one remaining unbroken connection between Jason's past and his present.

Almost every weekend in the summer his father would take he and his brothers up there; he always got a half footlong with 'everything': chili, mustard and onions. They would sit outside on their usual spot at the nearby picnic tables in the shade of the trees, enjoying their victuals and tossing fries to the birds who would congregate. He remembered his dad's warm smiles, the closeness of his brothers, the endless joy of summer vacation—it was a good thing

Jason would return to that same spot, now older and bitter, the same small meal he had as a child in his hands. Lonely; he would partake. He did not love chilidogs but the taste was familiar and for a short, transitory moment he would lose himself in the echos of his past, his nostalgia a whirlpool and to it's center nothingness. He felt the years that had slipped by, the loved now long gone.

But here, while breaking bread with aliens, he felt that today was a new day and _goddamn_ did this shit taste good.

 _It must be the hunger from the stimpacks talking, but holy fucking shit I can taste everything. Every individual spice from the chili seasoning, the ground beef, the grilled onions, the butter the grilled onions were grilled in; every part from the pig that went into the hotdog, the goddamn bun was potato bread, I never thought potato bread could taste so good, so creamy and mildly sweet, a perfect counterbalance to the tangy brown mustard-_

Jason was incredulous when Charley said it was all simply store-brand ingredients from the grocery store. The chili was the cheap canned variety. Maybe it was the stimpacks that did something to his appetite and made mundane foods taste way better than it had any business being. After his seventh helping Jason was convinced this was the case.

He ate like a monkey in a zoo. In other words, he fit right in. Among the chorus of belches, moans and gasps for air among the men Charley looked displeased. She vaguely filed through her buttered toast with raspberry jam, and meekly sipped her coffee among the degenerate cacophony. In order to quell the din she made small-talk with Jason.

"So, what got you into riding?" she asked.

Jason slowed his wanton gluttony for a moment to answer. "It was my dad. Since as far back as I could remember he rode. He had an old VMAX, solid black. That was always the kind of bike I wanted to ride when I got older, but I never got one, and never rode his. When he passed away Danny, my older brother, got it as an inheritance."

"My condolences," said Charley.

"It's alright. It was years ago."

Charley leaned back on her chair a little bit, a slight smile formed on her lips as she muttered, almost to herself, "...so, a VMAX, huh?"

"Yeah I—BWWAARHCK-" Jason had let loose an incredible belch. It felt like his teeth were rattling. The mice cheered. Charley winced.

"Uh, excuse me" he said with a frown of abashment.

"Excuse what?" said Vinnie, looking impressed, holding a hotdog in each hand, his face smeared with sauce, he looked like a toddler eating on his own for the first time. "That was awesome. What's that rate as, bros?"

"I'd say an 8," said Throttle.

Modo took a moment to cross his arms and give Jason a judgmental stare from his one good eye. "Well, like my grey-furred mamma always used to say: 'if you belch at the table like that again I'm gonna pull your tail off and choke you with it,' but since you excused yourself I give it an 8 and a half."

Jason wasn't sure how to take all this, he decided to change the subject.

"So," he said, his appetite now sated, "who was this guy you mistook me for? And what did he do to make you guys so..." he let that adverb drag for a moment while looking for an appropriate word to describe their demeanor on that fateful night "...aggressive to me?"

The din had suddenly grown silent. The mice exchanged long, serious looks at one another. Jason wasn't exactly sure of it, be he sensed that a tense debate was occurring. Charley gave Jason another worried look.

"Well," Throttle spoke, "it's a long story..." His antennae glowed again.

Jason stood up from the table, his hands up in a defensive pose. "Oh, nononono, we're not doing that again, I flipped my shit the last time you took me on a mind walk."

"There's a reason for why that happened," said Throttle, "I wasn't entirely... forthcoming? Usually when we share memories it's a one-way street kind of deal, like downloading a picture from my brain to yours. But we didn't trust you, you looked too similar with the guy we fought with—"

"Wait what did you differently with me than Charley?"

"I used our connection as an opportunity to search through your memories. I kind of peeked around inside while I told the usual story."

"You hacked into my brain?"

"Not really, but, uh..." Throttle looked at a loss for words. Jason could see the trouble that furrowed his brow. "It's more like we shared, but I didn't tell you I was sharing. A surprise share, like I was a guest for Thanksgiving dinner that brought a pumpkin pie and invited himself into your house."

"I feel like I should be angrier at this than I am."

"Well, how do you feel?"

"Embarrassed."

"You shouldn't be. I'm the one who should be apologetic. I didn't know any of your details, who you were, and what you did. Also, I'm not all that well a trained psychic, so I kinda got myself into a situation that was a bit over my head. Those who have had a lot of, uh—how should I say this—'bad stuff' happen in their lives tend to have problems with this kind of sharing, especially the unexpected kind. They cause 'blow-backs'."

"A blow-back?"

The other mice nodded in unison.

"It's a kind of side effect for people who have suffered a lot of mental or physical trauma. The memories of those events are so powerful they run the risk of triggering at the very least a panic attack, and at the worst case an 'imprinting'."

"An imprinting. What is it and what makes that a worst case?"

Throttle shuddered a bit before he answered. "It's not good. Usually it's a defense mechanism a trained psychic does to prevent his or her mind from being read, it's an aggressive transfer of memories. Traumatic events, horrific thoughts and emotions could be burned into the other users' mind. You'll see what they saw, feel what they felt, it will become a permanent part of your conscience, and all the mental illnesses and problems that come with it. It's like giving someone the flu, but instead it's schizophrenia."

"Holy shit that's awful."

"Well we got lucky on that last exchange. And it's my fault, I didn't know how deep your problems were for you."

"And you're still willing to talk to me after seeing one of my darkest hours?"

"Listen, bud," Modo interjected, he stood up, towering over Jason, placing a robotic hand on Jason's shoulder. "You're talking to three bros and a nice lady who have experienced a lot of crazy stuff together, and before we met her we fought in a brutal war that nearly wiped out our species." Modo's tone was soft, but steady. "We feel your pain, we, too rode through some similar dark roads. And we, too, have our own regrets. We might not be able to fully comprehend or understand, but we can sympathize. Throttle shared with us what he saw from you, and despite what Vinnie says, you're the same as us, minus the fur ...and tail and stuff."

Modo gave Jason a somewhat lopsided, dopey smile. Jason found it somewhat endearing that such a menacing looking guy like him could be so empathetic and silly. Once again, it goes, one should never trust first impressions. Jason gave a slight smirk back.

"Alright," Jason said to Throttle, "But let's play it safe; just tell me what was going on and then show me with your brain powers what the guy looks like."

"Fine. Well, it all happened a few weeks ago, at the Malort distillery-"

"Malort? What's that?"

Throttle seemed slightly annoyed at Jason's interruption, he glanced over at Charley.

"It's booze, a wormwood liquor. It's kind of a niche thing," she said.

"It tastes like dirt. Dirt from a grave that a hobo threw up on." Chimed Vinnie, making a disgusted face while retching.

"It's not that bad!" Charley said with a smile while lightly punching the white mouse on the shoulder.

Modo and Throttle stared at the mechanic stone-faced, like she had said some horrible untruth.

"Ok... It's pretty awful." She said, shrinking back slightly, "but it's a Chicago staple from a small business, and we're proud of our local institutions no matter how awful the stuff they make can be."

"And that's been Limburger's line these past few months," Said Throttle, picking up the story, "The big cheese has been attacking local businesses, schools, orphanages—pushing them out either by buying them outright or sabotaging them. Here, check this out."

The tan mouse stepped over to a rather conspicuously large painting that hung on the wall of the somewhat cramped dining room, it was an almost one-to-one recreation of 'Nighthawks' by Edward Hopper. With the wave of a hand a section of the wood paneled wall slid out, revealing a keypad. After pressing a seemingly random set of buttons the painting slid downward and behind the wall, revealing a large plasma screen that flickered on, showing a detailed map of the city of Chicago.

Throttle glanced back at Jason with a smug expression. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"It's... something, alright." Said Jason, wide-eyed.

"Computer," said Throttle, "display all locations of businesses and other institutions acquired by Limburger enterprises."

A clearly artificial, clinical feminine voice responded, "Understood, Theodore. Uploading."

Throttle's face turned beet red, his body stiffened as if taking some unseen blow. It took every last ounce of Jason's willpower to keep himself from collapsing in laughter. Instead, he decided to ignore the computer's comment; what was being shown was of far more importance.

On the screen several blue dots appeared all around the city, with an usually large concentration in Chicago's southern section.

"Now display the location of the Last Chance Garage."

A single yellow dot appeared, almost dead center in the cluster of blue dots.

 _The Last Chance Garage..._ It's name carried a meaning to Jason he wasn't quite able to fully understand, but it certainly left an impression on him.

"Now," continued Throttle, "Limburger's thing is kicking out the residents of most areas around Chicago, usually by buying them outright. Those who refuse are usually taken down and put out of business by other means: bribing city officials and inspectors to close down stores or residences for made up violations, sometimes sabotage, other times siccing his goon-squad to wreck the place."

"Sounds like your typical all-American entrepreneur—what was it that our president said? 'These are our Job Creators, the best and brightest, the backbone of the economy'?" said Jason with disdain.

"Don't get me started," growled Charley.

"Heh, yeah, let's not get our lady on the warpath," said Throttle, "So usually Limburger does these things for the simple purpose of scrapping these areas he just bought out or stole—taking all the rubble back to Plutark as raw resources, take the land to feed the beast. And here we are with the Malort distillery. The big stinker couldn't buy out the place, so he concocted his usual harebrained scheme to sabotage the business. From what little info we could gather he was gonna spike the distillery with bone-hurting juice. Overnight he was gonna send a Plutarkian mini-freighter filled with the stuff, dump it in vats, nice and neat and then sneak off before anyone would notice."

"What? Bone-hurting juice? Is that poison or something?" Jason found that name strange.

"It does what it says on the label," answered Vinnie, "It makes your bones all hurty and stuff."

"Pretty much," said Throttle, with a shrug. "Our guess is that Limburger figured what few clientele who actually drink this crap would be so put off by having all their bones hurt that they would stop buying it and then make the business go kaput—that's if the FDA didn't put the hammer down on them first."

Throttle then walked over to Charley and put a put a hand on her shoulder, "If it weren't for our super-mechanic's hacking skills, we wouldn't even know of his plan. She had found a backdoor to Limburger's business servers and was able to track all of his shipping and receiving."

Charley blushed and gave a modest smile, "It's wasn't all that spectacular, to be honest, all of his passwords were just 'password01'".

"And all we did was the usual, show up at the right place and kick some tail!" Vinnie boasted, raising a fist in the air.

"-except this time we didn't quite exactly do that." said Throttle.

Vinnie's ears drooped as he slowly lowered his fist. "...yeah, we didn't", he said bashfully.

"Normally there'd be a whole bunch of Limburger's flunkies, and Greasepit; he's a big moron who—big surprise—leaks grease everywhere. Or maybe some crazy invention by Karbunkle, the big cheese's resident mad scientist. Or also maybe another big-time flunkie he hired to take us on, but this time there was just that one guy."

"That was the guy you mistook me for?"

Modo made a grim face, his one good eye flashed red as he placed a hand on his bandaged chest and abdomen. "Yeah, the jerk who hit me a with a truck." His voice carried a slight snarl to it, a rising anger.

"Like, he ran you over with it?"

"No, he picked it up and **threw** it at me."

 _Oh. Shit._ thought Jason. He wasn't sure what amazed him more: the fact that someone would be strong enough to throw a truck, or the fact that all Modo got from having several tonnes of metal dropped on him was what appeared to be some broken ribs.

"He fought all three of us, toe-to-toe. Every lazer blast we fired he absorbed, every hit we landed he blocked. We couldn't do any damage to him, but he sure could damage us. Tossed us around like ragdolls. If it weren't for Charley-girl here hacking the US Army's air-defenses around Chicago-"

"-also a 'password01'-" interjected Charley.

"-we were probably gonna end up as some rodent road-kill. But when the army's SAMs came in and knocked out that transport carrying the juice, it ended up crashing into Limburger's tower, knocking the whole thing down. As soon as that happened the dude we were losing to just up and left. He had us on the ropes and gave up as soon as his mission failed. It was the damnedest thing..."

"Yeah, if you guys were as much a thorn in Limburger's side why didn't he just git rid of you guys when he had the chance?"

"I dunno, but his quitting let us regroup and figure out a way to take him down. We figured that he must have some kind of power armor on, a force-field, being able to absorb our lazer blasts was the giveaway. Even if disabling his power armor wouldn't stop him, it would at least make him vulnerable and give us a chance."

"And when we see him again we're gonna lay the smackdown on his ass! WHOO!" Vinnie's earlier meekness was dispelled in another show of bravado, he was now pumping both fists in the air, his muscles flexing. Charlie seemed to be admiring the white mouse, leaning forward with elbows on the table and both hands resting under her chin, a daydream-like smile on her face.

"I'm gonna rip that stupid ugly helmet of his off and beat him with it..." Modo cracked his knuckles as he rumbled through his words, he then looked at at Jason with a suddenly self-aware expression. "No offense."

"None taken. So I'm guessing you guys never saw his face?"

"No," said Throttle, "as I said, he looked just like you with all your gear on. Same color helmet, same style of jacket, same make and color of motorcycle, and he rode that thing like a bat out of hell. Funny thing, though, is the only feature we could see that was different from you was his hair. He had some long locks that came down his back. Same color as yours, though. Anyways, at night, when we saw you ride by you looked the same, minus what we couldn't see."

"Alright, now I'm really curious, lemme have a look." Jason stood up, hands wide, the gesture of willingness.

"If you're game then I'm game," said Throttle as he approached, his antennae glowing.

At first there was darkness, just like before. Then, slowly, fading in, Jason could see as Throttle had seen, his hands stretched out, grasping the handlebars of his bike, racing down a city street. Ahead lie the gate to the distillery.

He glanced to his left and right, seeing Vinnie and Modo flanking him. The machines they rode were impressive things indeed. Jason had wondered about what make and model and alien tech they possessed, but now was not the time to wonder of such things.

And then from behind the wall that the distillery's gate was attached to rode a single man. His helmet wasn't the same as Jason's. Yes, it was white, but the face was shaped like a Simpson drag helmet, with an angular chin bar that gave the wearer a predatory, ominous appearance. The visor was polarized, colored a smokey silver. His jacket was similar to Jason's, but with a single wide white stripe around the shoulders. The rider's pants were also a solid black, as well as his pair of leather engineer boots. His look was familiar to Jason, his athletic stature and bulky frame reminded him of a ghost he once knew.

And then there was the mystery rider's bike. It, too, was an xDiavel, but solid matte black. There was no noticeable shining metal—it seemed to suck in the light around it. As the bros approached the rider started to rev his engine, sputtering evil half-howling and half-screaming howls from it's exhausts tips. The noise, an alarm, a harbinger.

As the trio stopped at the gate entrance. There were in a standoff with the skull-helmeted rider.

"Uh, hello, citizen!" said Throttle with one hand raised in a conciliatory gesture. "That's a mean looking ride you got there! Would you mind moving aside, we gotta save this local business from some unscrupulous fellows!"

The rider responded with a raised middle finger while still revving his bike.

"That's not very nice there, citizen!"

The rider now raised his other middle finger.

"Alright that's it, let's nail this punk!" yelled Vinnie, launching his bike with a wheelie at the rider. In an instant the rider gripped his handlebars, twisting his throttle grip and dumping the clutch, spinning the musclebike in a clockwise circle with a wall of acrid smoke billowing from the rear tire. As he turned his ride to avoid Vinnie's charge Throttle could get a good glimpse of the rider's back.

 _There was a symbol on the back in white stitching._ _ **It was a skeleton sitting on a throne, atop it's skull lay a crown, a scepter in it's right hand and a globus cruciger in the left. Inscribed beneath were two words that pierced Jason's heart.**_

 _ **THE EMPEROR.**_

Jason broke the link again. He stared at Throttle with horror on his face. He backed away, not taking his eyes off of anyone in the room.

"I-I, I need a breath of fresh air. I'll be outside." he stammered as he left, almost running out as he quickly opened the door that led back to the garage.

"Wait! What happened!" Charley made a move to follow Jason, but she froze as she looked to Throttle.

Standing still, mouth slightly agape, he saw a little girl staring back at him from behind the door that Jason had opened. There was fear in her umber eyes, a purple butterfly clip dangling in her black hair.

* * *

 _So that's it for this chapter! I gotta be honest, this was kind of a text dump, and I feel like I'm still missing some points. Please let me know what you guys think! Was it easy to follow? Was it confusing? If you have any questions about anything, or comments, please feel free to let me know! Also, in terms of music I been listening to some pretty dope new tracks by Carpenter Brut on the album_ **_Leather Teeth_** , _he's got some good style tunes. If I could I would put a link in here, but I can't because links are forboten here. So you'll have to look his work up yourselves._


	7. BROTHERS

_Hello, it's been awhile. Once again I am sorry for the wait. I have to give a lot of credit to **DinoDragonMaster** for giving me great ideas for the story, and also helping me refocus. Please check out his work. As for my delay, well, work and life can make something like writing a more arduous task than it already is. Between studying and minor social obligations this ends up falling pretty low in my to-do-list sometimes. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and for those who actually read this stuff, I just wanted to say thank you, and if you actually enjoy this work, THANK YOU SO MUCH. Once again, all characters and brand names are copyrighted to their respective owners. Ride safe._

 **CHAPTER 7: BROTHERS**

* * *

Jason stood outside the garage, fidgeting, rolling his lit cigarette through the fingers in his right hand. His mind was racing, his heart banging against his ribcage as he felt a barely controlled panic rising from within. A cold sweat sullied his brow. Throttle's revelation had shattered his world. His earlier humor long since forgotten. The food he had eaten that was once delicious now settled in his stomach like a bed of ash. He wanted to throw up.

 _That couldn't have been him, no fucking way, no way no how not in a thousand years could that have been him_ , he thought in disbelief. He didn't want it to be true but those memories Throttle had projected onto him weren't lying. Even though he didn't actually see the face of his brother through the smokey gray polarized lens of that white helmet it was the logo on the back of that jacket was all too familiar. Daniel had worn that same logo for years, it was his identity on the track, on the street. The skull, the crown, the title. If it wasn't the only one, it wouldn't have taken long to call the roll.

It was the last thing Jason saw as his brother sped off into the night almost four years ago.

Jason remembered.

He remembered in stark horror at what his brother had done; he had shown up at the house, hands and jacket bloody from having just stabbed a man at the local bar. A fight over a spilled drink. Daniel was a fugitive now. The same person who for years was Jason's rock, who grounded his temperamental disposition with steely coolness and good-hardheartedness had been warped into this monster. The war had changed him as it had changed Jason and just as it had taken Brian.

These young ones, children who had dreams of doing the right thing were turned into killers for the state. They would return; some traveled alive but warped, bent, broken; others moved in coffins, armless and legless and tucked under an American flag.

Jason offered no aid his older brother, only exhorting him to go to the police. Daniel refused as he cleaned the blood from his hands and jacket and got back on their dad's old VMAX. He was going to flee with nothing more than the clothes on his back and the steel horse he saddled.

"Remember," Daniel had said, his voice cold and distant, "there are no heroes. Only the dead. I'll see you on the other side, brother."

And with that he vanished. Jason called the police as soon as he got back into the house. He was grilled for hours at the station, giving every piece of information he could; his brother's identity, what he wore, what he rode. Jason felt no reservations for aiding the law. After all, the creature that wore Daniel's skin was no longer his brother—that man had died as soon as he had left for Iraq. When Daniel had returned he had grown distant from the family. He had become cruel, prone to vicious outbursts of violence. Once they were inseparable, Daniel and he, but now there seemed to be an insurmountable gulf between the two of them.

Jason knew that despite his help Daniel was probably out of reach of the Maryland state police. A man of his riding skill would be almost impossible to pursue. After a few hours he would've been out of the state, and from there who knew where he went. The man whom Daniel had stabbed died later from his wounds. He was a father of three. The FBI had placed Daniel on the fugitive list, and they frequently visited Jason asking for any updates or new information. Jason had none to give. He never saw or heard from Daniel again—he figured his brother was either dead or out of country. Eventually the visits and calls from the police got fewer and further in between until they eventually stopped altogether. Justice would not be served.

Four years. Four long lonely years. All that was left for Jason was wreckage left behind.

But out of all that despair and all that loss and as Jason's world began to fall apart only then did his goddamn older brother decide to reappear.

It had to be fate. Or a cruel joke. It was becoming too much for Jason. He was left so alone. He didn't know what to do next.

 **HEY THERE**

A sudden warm and moist sensation began to trickle down the back of Jason's neck. "Who's that?" he asked. Around him were only the empty dilapidated streets of south Chicago.

There was no one.

 **IN YOUR HEAD, DUMBASS**

"What?"

 **IT'S YOUR ID, YOU MORON**

"Oh, uh, hello?"

 **LISTEN FAM, I GOTTA GET LEVEL: YOU'RE LOSING IT AND I DON'T LIKE IT. IT MAKES ME ALL NERVY. YOU'RE THIRSTY. YOU NEED A DRINK**

Jason felt a pang inside of his chest. He hadn't had a good stiff drink in days. It was always his help when things started to get a bit out of hand.

 **YOU'RE HAVING THE DREAMS AGAIN. ALIENS ARE REAL. THE GOOD ONES BLEW UP YOUR MOTORCYCLE AND ONE OF THEM IS BUMPING UGLIES WITH A MECHANIC. YOUR BROTHER IS AN ASSHOLE WORKING FOR THE ASSHOLE ALIENS. YOU NEED SOMETHING TO THINK THROUGH IT. YOU'RE TOO SOBER. YOU GOTTA NUMB THAT PAIN**

To Jason that sounded like a good idea.

"But where am I gonna get some booze."

 **DUMMY YOU'RE IN THE GHETTO, THERES LIQUOR STORES ON EVERY BLOCK. LOOK TO YOUR RIGHT**

Down the block at the first intersection was, in fact, a store. The entrance sign read _Guns 'n' Booze 'n' Bail Bonds_.

"Oh."

 **C'MON BUD. JUST HOP ON OVER AND PICK UP YOUR OLD PALS JIMMY AND BEAN. YOU STILL GOT ALL THAT MONEY FROM SELLING THE HOUSE. WHAT'S THE HARM? WHAT. IS. THE. H A R M?**

"Well... I guess..."

 **ATTA BOY! NOW GO ON DOWN THERE AND GET PROPER FUCKED UP. AND THEN COME BACK HERE WITH YOUR SWAGGER INTACT. YOU KNOW YOU WANNA STICK YOUR TOUNGE DOWN THAT CHARLEY-GIRL'S THROAT. VINNIE'S A LITTLE BITCH, ANYWAYS. HE'LL LET YOU WALK ALL OVER HIM.**

 _This is getting ridiculous!_

Another voice. It was piercing and cold. Shivers raced up Jason's spine.

 _It's your Ego, numbskull. You're going about this all wrong like always. You're letting Id walk all over you, and you're gonna fuck it all up. You're a coward, Jason, and you're gonna retreat back into that bottle the moment the going gets tough. You never were a hero, and once you start walking away from here you're never gonna stop. You're gonna take your pain and bury it with booze and pills, never to confront it. You'll never be a good person. You'll always be a—_

 **FUCK YOU EGO**

 _No, fuck you, Id._

 **DOUBLE FUCK YOU**

Jason crumpled over on the pavement, his hands gripping the sides of his head. A searing, horrendous pain lanced through his head. He began to shake.

"I'm losing my fucking mind..." he hissed.

 **NAH, THAT'S JUST THE DT'S**

 _Because you keep making this weak-willed nancy boy drink until he can't remember shit._

 **WELL TRIPLE FUCK YOU**

 _ **Stop.**_

It was another strange voice. It seemed to well up from a deep spot within. It felt warm, soothing, direct. It was the one semblance of control Jason felt he had left.

 _ **It's your super-ego if that's what you're wondering.**_

"You know, I thought the whole Freudian thing was mostly outdated now and this is kind of an amateurish interpretation of things. You're not gonna start making me talk about my father's penis, are you?"

 _ **It doesn't matter, just listen to me. You're stopped at a fork in the road and you only got two ways to go. On one hand you can let Id and Ego pull you willy nilly—basically the status quo to what you've been doing these last couple of years. You're gonna get drunk, pass out somewhere, buy another bike and then ride like the wind out of this shitty situation. All of those things that you hate about yourself you get to continue being.**_

"Well, I am a coward piece of shit."

 _ **Yeah. Or there is another way.**_

"I'm all ears."

 _ **Do you remember what Danny said all those years ago back at the old place?**_

"When I was a kid."

When the sky was awash in pink and indigo. The world was open. Things made sense. There was an American dream. We had some ice cream under the tree. We howled in joy all summer's day. There was hope. An anger at an older brother, an anger that gave way to love. A learned thing that was shared...

 _ **What is a hero?**_

"He said a hero is someone who is always true to himself,"

 _He always does the right thing no matter the consequences._

 **HE HAS TO BE STRONG SO HE CAN HELP OUT EVERYONE ELSE**

 ** _And he never backs down or takes the easy way out._ **

Jason slowly rose to his feet. He looked above. The morning sky was painted in the same hues as he remembered on that evening over twenty years ago.

He gazed at the flickering neon lights above the garage bay doors. The _Last Chance Garage_. Jason hung his head. He would run. He always ran. Things a real hero wouldn't do. Things he would do, because he was not a hero.

"...because I am not..."

"Not what?"

A sudden sharp pain jolted Jason. He gasped as he dropped the cigarette that had burned down to his fingers. He turned and saw Throttle standing behind him by a few feet. The mouse looked haggard.

"Nothing," said Jason as he turned away and looked back at the neon sign. The 'L' was now only partially lit. Jason felt that Throttle wanted to say something but wasn't sure where to start.

"So, imagine our luck," said Throttle as he walked up to stand abreast of Jason, also staring at the neon sign. "Me and my bros were just some alien punks who just got shot down by a Plutarkian destroyer and crash-landed in Wrigley Field in the middle of a game. Strangers in a strange land. As we were out searching for spare parts we wound up in this joint, stumbling into the best damn mechanic on the planet. If it wasn't for our Charley-girl I don't think the three of us would have lasted long here. She's always been there for us; to fix our bikes, stitch us up, foot our bills and put up with with our antics."

"She sure is something else," said Jason, not taking his eyes off the sign.

"More than something else, she's a real hero."

 _A hero._

Throttle looked over at Jason. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that anyone can be a hero. It's all about making the right choice at the right place at the right time." Throttle put a hand on Jason's shoulder. "Most heroes are just regular, ordinary people who got put in extraordinary circumstances. That's who I was, so were my bros, so was Charley-girl, so are you."

"It's my last chance." whispered Jason, staring back at Throttle, the redhead's eyes looked sharp but with no shine. _My last chance to redeem myself. Maybe I can do one right thing. Tell him the truth._

"Last chance for what?" said Throttle with a hint of a chuckle at the back of his throat.

"That man I saw. The man you showed me. I know him."

"I figured as much with they way you reacted when you saw him. How well do you know him?"

"More than you could imagine. He's, uh... he's my older brother. His name is Daniel."

Throttle's eyebrows shot up, clearly visible above the rims of his sunglasses, his mouth slightly agape in surprise. "Oh. Wow. Uh, well, that's gonna be an awkward family reunion."

Jason a rueful chuckle. "It wouldn't be much of a reunion. Just my brother and me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that he and I are only ones left." Jason walked over the storefront, leaning himself against the brick wall next to the garage bay doors.

"What about everyone else?"

Jason wondered if he should tell Throttle his story. Should he tell the martian of his loved one's fates? Would he even understand the nature of his loss? He was starting to break down again. All the self hate, the old painful memories were creeping in. He needed to tamp them down, push them aside. He needed to be strong but he was weak. It would easier to do if he had something to drink, something to numb his agitation and distance himself but here he was: sober, lost, alone and painfully aware. Jason started to slide down the brick wall, collapsing into a heap on the concrete sidewalk, his hands covering his face, as if he was trying to dam the tears that started to well up.

Throttle walked closer and took a knee beside Jason, resting a hand on the shoulder of the crying man. At first Jason shook it off, but Throttle placed his hand back on again, calmly assuaging the man in is moment of distress. "It's ok, it's ok..." repeated Throttle in a soft, gentle tone. Eventually, with a snort and quiet sigh Jason started to regain some semblance of composure.

"C'mere," said Throttle as he tenderly helped the tear-stained man pick himself up and they embraced in a hug. Jason usually avoided such displays of affection: he was, after all a man, and men needed to be hard-hearted and emotionally detached, but here he was too worn down to care and found the exchange comforting. Throttle didn't say a word, merely patting Jason's back a few times before releasing him.

"Thanks, I needed that," said Jason as he dusted himself off.

"No problem." Throttle put his hands in his pants pockets and started to look around the area, he appeared to be carefully considering about what to say next.

"I'm not sure how to say this all neatly so I'm just gonna be up front: we need your help. Maybe you can talk to Daniel, if you're so sure it's him, maybe you can convince him to stop working for Limburger, otherwise we're gonna have to kick his tail. Also, _you_ need help. You're sick, you're lost and you're hurting and there's nothing wrong with you to admit that. You been through the ringer, life has beaten you down and _we_ can help you with that."

"What kind of help? Like a shrink? Because all they ever did was talk at me, shove me in the loony bin and give me meds that made me even more loopy than I already am." Jason knew Throttle was right but he was skeptical of what manner of help Throttle and the others can offer.

"Weeell... It's not necessarily a shrink. It's more like we have 'specialists' that can come here from the home planet; psychic healers. Those who can get inside your mind and fix what's broken or damaged. They _can_ help you but that's _if_ you want to stay and help us with your brother. It's your choice. After all, you've got no attachments, no home, nowhere else to go. Why not?"

"So it's just that easy to get assistance from mars? I thought you guys crash-landed here with no chance for support."

"We did, at first, but we found a way to break the Plutarkian blockade that surrounds Mars. We get supplies and other stuff on a quarterly basis. As in a quarter of your Earth years..."

"No, what I mean is that you guys can at any moment go back to Mars. Why stay here? Earth isn't your fight."

Throttle looked upset at Jason's question, like he had touched a nerve. "Not _our_ fight? Listen, brother," said the mouse with a rather harsh tone at Jason's unintended ignorance, "Wherever those stinkfishes go is _our_ fight. What they did to us and our planet they will do to you. Earth is full of wonderful people like Charley, good people, and as long as my bros and I ride we will stand tall, stare at the face of evil and _fight_ these sons of bitches with everything we have. Chicago is every bit our home, just like Mars, and we won't give up our mission until every corner on this city and this planet are free from Limburger and his kind."

Throttle was now mere inches from Jason's face, his eyes seemingly boring a hole into the human.

"So," asked the mouse, "are you with us or not?" Jason noticed his breath smelled of birch bark.

Jason stepped back for a second.

He was at a loss. There was a fork in the road.

Only two ways.

Either he can keep on running in the night, alone and aimless.

Or maybe...

...maybe he can right himself. Pull himself straight. Take back some measure of control over his pathetic life, call back to the proud warrior he once was and fight for good.

One _last chance_ -

A fire was starting to rise within Jason. A burning inside that he had not felt for years. At what was once a man who looked lost and weary he now stared back at Throttle with an intensity that surprised the Martian mouse.

"Alright, I'll do it. I'll help you guys: but on one condition."

A wide grin spread across Throttles muzzle. "And what's that?"

"I want to join the freedom fighters."

* * *

Jason was told by Throttle to wait in the garage while the others convened in the upstairs living room. The intent, it seemed, was to keep their conversation secret. The result, however, left a lot to be desired since Jason could hear everything being discussed through the thin walls and flooring.

"You have got to be kidding me! Him? Joining us? The man is a nutjob!" Jason could clearly tell from the indignant tone and slight whine that it was Vinnie's.

"He may be a little bit unstable, I admit, but who among us can say that we all aren't a little loopy ourselves? Besides, he can be our ace in the hole with his brother." Throttle seemed to be attempting a balancing act of both placating the white mouse, as well stating his case. Jason noted how put off the tan mouse was when he asked to join their group. Even to himself it seemed like a crazy idea, but he had nowhere else to go. Hell, he was surprised at his own request. He was still trying to figure out from where this desire welled up.

"I gotta be honest, bro, I think you're makin' a rash decision. We don't know much about this guy, and with him possibly being kin to Limburger's latest lapdog isn't helping your case. Are you sure you're not feeling a bit loopy from your last telepathic link with him?" Modo seemed to be the most level-headed of the three, at least until he got riled up. Jason shuddered at the memory of the large gray mouse's one good eye flashing red in a barely contained fury.

"Trust me, I'm certain he's not in cahoots in the stinkfish. I can't explain it, but I feel like I _know_ him, or at least understand him."

Jason was starting to feel uncomfortable, like he was on trial. He decided to busy himself by looking at all the machines stored in the garage. Eventually he laid eyes on the motorcycles the three mice rode.

They looked like vague facsimiles of current model bikes, heavily modified. One bike resembled a Harley Davidson VROD Muscle, with the swooping exhaust pipes and long rake, drag handlebars and straight bolstered seat-cushion. It's black paint on the tank and bobbed fenders was shined to a near perfect gloss. There was no chrome on the bare metal parts, only what appeared to be a brushed aluminum. The engine appeared to be a conventional V-twin, but there were parts that Jason was unfamiliar with. Although he could clearly see what looked like a twin-screw supercharger bolted above the engine block. It was a menacing looking machine, exuding immense straight-line performance. It resembled a black panther, a night stalker. It was the bike a leader, a strong-minded individual, most likely belonging to a leader of men... or mice. It had to be Throttle's

"You think you _know_ him? Don't you think that sounds a little odd? I saw the look on your face after that last link-up you had, and the time before that. Are you sure he didn't leave a less than healthy impression on you?" There was concern in Modo's tone.

The human wondered how well Throttle's bike would handle itself when the road got curvy due to it's cruiser seating position. The Ducati he had ridden was extremely fast, but in the turns his lean was limited to the extent of the foot-pegs. As soon as he had a good angle, the pegs would scrape and so would the kickstand and part of the exhaust pipes. It was a fair trade for it's comfort, but in the clutch when he was trying to escape from Vinnie's pursuit it had left a lot to be desired.

"Wait, is that the whole 'imprinting' thing you were talking about earlier?" Charley had taken a backseat for most of the conversation, to hear her voice so suddenly was surprising

The next ride most certainly seemed to fit Vinnie's adrenaline-junkie's persona to the letter. A no-nonsense superbike, resembling what might have been a 1199 Panigale. It's front half was covered completely in bright, arterial blood-red fairing. The rear half was exposed, showing the transmission cover, parts and pieces of suspension and other, unknown bits all of it painted a light-absorbing black. On it's massive tires were alloy rims and a pair of disc brakes almost as large as the rims themselves. This was a machine made for speed in all corners and straights, it's rider's arms and legs tucked in a near fetal position to maximize drag-reduction, his head pointed forward as he would attack the road. The exhaust was a short, barely-noticeable thing, visually, but he remembered how screeching loud it was at emission. The machine had a shape both utilitarian and beautiful, a symmetry between form an function.

"Bro, if he's inside your head then it's all the more reason to get the help we need from him, and send him on his way. We've already screwed him up enough, and he in turn has screwed _you_ up. How can we even be sure he can hang with us? He's just human, is what I'm saying." Vinnie sounded adamant in his opinion. Jason couldn't help but agree. It seemed everything he took part in, everything he touched went to pure shit.

"'Just human'? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Charley sounded like she was about to go off on Vinnie.

"It's not like that, babe!" Vinnie now seemed to be trying to walk back his previous comment. "I mean, you're one of a kind! You're amazing! But he's just another guy, we know almost nothing about him-"

"Just like you guys knew almost nothing about me but you guys took a chance anyways."

"I mean, yeah, but he isn't some super-hot babe who offered up help—OW!"

Jason tried to ignore the sound of repeated slapping and punching as he approached what he assumed was Modo's ride. Of the three, it's appearance seemed the most conventional—closely resembling a mid 2000's Honda Valkyrie. It was a beast of a bike in size, with a massive engine soaked in acres of glitzy chrome. It's fenders and fuel tank painted a brilliant iridescent blue, ocean-like in it's scale. It had ape-hanger bars, jutting straight upward, and it's black-leather seat was almost couch-like in size. It dwarfed the other bikes—it looked bigger than some cars. Jason got closer and looked over the gauge cluster. He noticed it had some conventional dials, like a tachometer, a speedometer, and an engine-oil temp reader. There was also what appeared to be a digital screen smack in the middle, on the chromed cross brace between the front tire's inverted fork suspension. He jumped when the screen came to life.

HELLO JASON, it read in solid block white letters.

"Um, hello?"

"By the gods, Charley-girl, Vinnie isn't even putting up a fight! Calm down." Modo seemed to be trying to hold back his laughter at the altercation happening upstairs.

"Wait, how do you know my name?" Jason was talking to a motorcycle. He felt confused, which is now normal. He felt very normal.

MORTIMER MY RIDER HAS TOLD ME ABOUT YOU MY NAME IS ( **LIL' HOSS** ) **,** the letters on it's name were flashing.

 _Modo talks to his bike. The bike is now talking to me. And Modo's real name is Mortimer. I wonder what Vinnie's real name is. Could it be Vincent?_

"Are you some kind of an A.I.?"

YES, I AND THE OTHERS WE ARE AWARE

Jason felt an instinctive unease, like he was now suddenly being watched. He looked at the other bikes. Both of their fronts were now turned, their headlights pointing straight at him.

 _Holy shit._

A beeping sound brought his attention back to Lil' Hoss.

DO NOT BE AFRAID WE KNOW YOU ARE A FRIEND

"How do you know I am a friend?"

CHARLEY-GIRL TOLD US SHE TAKES GOOD CARE OF US SHE IS A **GOOD** FRIEND

The other two bikes beeped in agreement.

 _Oh dude this is so fucked. Well at least Charley-girl put in a good word for me._

"Do the other's have names like yours?"

YES THE ONE THAT IS THROTTLE'S IS NAMED ( **NIGHTSTER** ) AND THE ONE THAT IS VINCENT'S IS NAME ( **HARLEY** )

 _Harley? Another girl's name?_

WAS THAT YOUR BIKE?

"The wrecked one? Yeah."

WE ARE SAD WE ARE SORRY MAYBE CHARLEY-GIRL CAN FIX HER LIKE SHE FIXES US SHE CAN FIX ANYTHING

"Listen, let's at least give him a chance. We'll put him through the trials." Throttle now sounded like he now issuing an order.

"Trials?" Charley's voice bore the exertion of being held back by someone, probably Modo, and probably for the purpose of keeping her from wailing on Vinnie.

"For new recruits, Charley-ma'am. To see if they're up to snuff. But I don't think he'll make the cut." If Modo was the one holding Charley back it sure didn't sound like it. But then again, he looked large enough to toss ship's anchors like horseshoes.

"I guarantee he won't pass what I have in store for him—OW! Stop, babe, you're actually hurting me this time—DAMNIT OW!"

VINCENT DOESN'T HAVE MUCH FAITH IN YOU

 _Vincent it is. This is too cute. Mortimer, Vincent, Theodore. I'm dying._

WE HAVE FAITH IN YOU

"And why is that? I don't even have much faith in myself to be honest."

WE HAVE HEARD YOU TALK AND WHAT IS ALSO SAID OF YOU YOU HAVE A GOOD HEART BUT YOU ARE HURTING

 _Great. Now I'm getting life coached by a fucking motorcycle._

THEY CAN FIX YOU THEY CAN FIX ANYTHING

 _Fix me? How can you fix something that is utterly broken?_

Fix a broken man. Heal invisible wounds. How can they...

"I'll stay as long as I can. I guess it depends on whether or not I pass these 'trials' they have planned for me."

YOU WILL PASS BECAUSE YOU HAVE A GOOD HEART

BECAUSE EVENTUALLY WHEN YOU ARE SO HURT AND BROKEN DOWN THAT YOU CANNOT GO ANY FURTHER

 **THEY** WILL HELP CARRY YOU THE REST OF THE WAY

BECAUSE THEY WILL KNOW YOU WILL DO THE SAME FOR THEM

BUT FIRST YOU NEED A RIDE AS A NEW MEMBER OF OUR FAMILY

WILL IT BE THE BROKEN ONE? OR WILL IT BE SOMETHING NEW?

'Lil Hoss tilted its headlight towards what appeared to be something hidden under a large, black cover. It was clearly a motorcycle, but of what model Jason had no clue. Before he could uncover it he heard boot-steps from the nearby staircase. There stood Throttle, arms crossed; standing like a principal waiting for an unruly student to enter his office.

"Well, you can come up whenever you're ready," said the shaggy mouse, bearing no expression.

Jason turned back to look at the mice's rides. They were back in their resting position, as if they had never moved at all. Jason wondered if it was all some hallucination. His suspicion was dashed the moment he looked at Lil' Hoss's screen.

RIDE FREE, it read.

When Jason walked back into the living room he felt an almost palpable tension in the air, and for once it wasn't caused by himself.

Throttle took a seat on one of the vacant chairs. The other three were all sitting on the couch, Vinnie and Charley sitting at opposite ends with Modo—against the laws of spacial relationships—sitting between the two as a buffer. Vinnie now spotted a few fresh lumps on his head, and what wore what will eventually turn into a black-eye. Charley looked pissed, and Modo looked like he just wished everyone would calm down.

"You ok, Vincent? Looks like you fell down the stairs," said Jason with a hint of humor in his voice.

The look Vinnie gave Jason made his blood curdle. The earlier fury that seemed almost funny in it's awkwardness was replaced by what appeared to be a real hurt. Jason feared his remark may have crossed a line. Instead of lunging at him Vinnie coldly replied, "you haven't earned the right to call me 'Vincent', _recruit_." There was extra venom at that last word.

"So, uh, heh, as Vinnie just said, you're our newest recruit. So, uh, congrats!" Throttle seemed to be forcing his enthusiasm.

"Recruit? So I guess I have to pass some sort of test to be a full-fledged member?" Jason knew this already, but felt that at least it would polite to play dumb and not indicate to them that he had been sort of eavesdropping.

"That's right. We're gonna put you through your paces, to make sure you're the kind of guy who can be one of the bros. We all had to go through it, so don't think of it as some kind of hazing ritual for non-martians," said Modo.

Charley did not look happy with this decision, "I don't remember going through some set of trials, guys, and aren't I in your exclusive club? Or is it _guys only_?"

"Charley-ma'am of course you're a freedom-fighter. You proved yourself time and time again, we had no need to do our normal routine. But Jason here," Modo waved his robotic hand over to Jason and continued in his polite tone, "Jason is still an unknown to us. Don't get me wrong, bud, I'm glad you want to help us, and I'm pretty sure we all here are glad to help you, but to be one of us you gotta walk the walk. I'm sure if you're half the man that Throttle seems to think you are then you'll get through it, but it won't be easy." Jason remembered Modo's earlier doubt of him being able to make the cut. It hurt.

"What does this training consist of?"

"First we'll get you back in shape," said Throttle, "and when we think you're ready for it we'll put you through our trials."

Jason winced slightly at Throttle's remark. Sure, he wasn't fat, but admittedly he was a far cry from his former self. There was some paunch, is all.

"Trials? What does that mean, exactly?"

"Each of us will have some sort of event, a one-on-one set up. We'll test you on the tenants of the freedom-fighters ethos, our code. Pass all three and you're in."

"And how long will all this take?"

"As long as it needs to, but probably a couple of weeks... maybe three," said Throttle.

" _Three weeks_? That's awful quick. And that'll get me all chiseled and badass like you guys? How? What the fuck are you guys eating—because I don't think you get the body of a WWE wrestler from just chilidogs and rootbeer."

"Remember? We're aliens? We got the technology, dumbass?" Vinnie seemed to be losing patience. It was clear to Jason that his hostility might be a problem for him down the road. He probably shouldn't have given him such a razzing earlier.

"Vinnie, I've had it up to here with your negativity—" Charley was starting to get mean again. But Vinnie didn't flinch, it seemed like he was starting to get mad.

"Negative? _Are you kidding me?_ We're on day two with this guy and now we're gonna let him join in like we're one big happy family?" Vinnie's upper lip was quivering, his face a dike holding back a roiling ocean of emotion, "we had guys and gals we knew for years, _years_ , that lost everything, that _died_ before they had a chance to join our brothers and sisters, and I would trade a thousand Jasons before I give up a Runner or a Nightshade-"

"Or a Harley?" Jason didn't mean to say the name, it slipped out subconsciously.

The human, it seemed, had touched a very sensitive nerve. Upon his utterance Vinnie seemed to run through a succession of emotions in the span of a couple of seconds. First, his ruby red eyes went wide with shock, then his face shifted into a look of confusion, and then it contorted into white hot anger.

Jason knew he had fucked up, the Vinnie that he had wrestled with earlier was more annoyed than angry at his ribbing. This was a wounded Vinnie, the name he had uttered seemed to cut into the white mouse.

" _Who told you that name_?" he asked with a strain to his voice. Everyone else in the room was on edge; Jason knew he had to be very careful with his next few words or Vinnie was going to erupt.

"The bike named Lil' Hoss—it talked to me."

Modo looked shocked, his one good eye lighting up with a flash of red. " _My_ bike? It talked to you?"

"Y-yeah, the other bikes were lookin' at me, too. I don't know... I just, walked up to them."

Vinnie's anger that seemed so close to erupting just as suddenly faded, but the hardness in his gaze did not falter.

"Fine, alright...ok" Vinnie's tone was now measured, place his next words carefully to maximize their impact. "You wanna join us? Huh? Fight the good fight? Be a good little human? _Fine_. I'll make sure you _sing_ for your supper." Vinnie stood up and walked up to Jason, the white mouse's eyes boring a hole through the man's skull. "Because I'll tell you something, friend-o, you're trying to get into the tightest knit group of bros on this side of the galaxy." Vinnie poked a gloved finger into Jason's chest.

" _Earn this,_ " said the white mouse. And then he left the room, walking into the garage in a huff.

Charley looked at the other two mice in confusion, Throttle and Modo gave her helpless glances in return. She then hopped out of her seat and quickly followed Vinnie.

Jason was shaken slightly, he was certain that he had just avoided a catastrophe. "What the hell just happened? Did I just fuck up?" he asked out loud, to no one in particular.

"Not really, you just surprised us. Our bikes tend to be very... selective with those they like," said Modo. He walked up to Jason and patted him on the arm, nearly doubling the human over. "As to the why: you'll find out soon enough." And with that Modo left as well.

Only Throttle remained. He seemed nervous, almost as if doubting his own decisions. The shaggy-furred mouse scratched at a spot at the side of his head, readjusted his sunglasses and coughed quietly.

"Well," he said, "when Charley-girl comes back you two'll go shopping, gotta get you geared up, and then get you a ride. Training starts tomorrow. You got what you wanted, a chance."

"Thanks," said Jason. "To be honest, I don't think I'm all to welcomed though."

"We'll see. If you give it your all and give us some time, we'll see. On that note, I do have one more question."

"What is it?"

"What's the deal with that saxophone?"

Jason laughed.

* * *

 _So, that's it for this chapter, hopefully I can get the next one up sooner than a goddamn month. I have the first couple of pages written down, and it'll be on our coming antagonists. Also, some news for Throttle that will be very surprising, also some more Vinnie/Charley. Also, what the fuck is going on with that saxophone? FIND OUT SOON._

 _I had been listening to a lot of **Lazerhawk** recently, and the name of this chapter is also the name of one of his songs. Check it out, it's on the album **SKULL AND SHARK** ; it has a grim, ominous tone to it that seems kind of jarring to the title which for many people would seem to think of as positive. There's also another song on that album that inspired the title of this story._

 _Anyways, a thank you to anyone who has stuck with me and not gotten bored yet. Next chapter will be FINALLY getting out of the goddamned garage, and into the plot. Things will pick up. Love you all._


	8. LOST AND FOUND

_Hello again. I'd like to start off by saying sorry for the long wait for this chapter—I could make excuses, but after my earlier promises of quicker updates, well, there's no excuse for it. This is a rather short chapter, I know. I wanted to add in a much longer segment detailing the bad guys, but that part is super clunky and doesn't really fit with this first part—I'll post that chapter pretty soon, it's almost complete but needs a lot of rework. The lyrics in this chapter are from the band **The Midnight** , and the song is 'Lost & Found', it's a really good song. On a personal note I bought a new bike, a Kawasaki Z900RS-it's a hoot of a bike and I've been having way too much fun on it, probably partly why I've been so long between updates besides my work and family stuff.  
_

 **CHAPTER 8: LOST AND FOUND**

 _Through These Portals Pass Prospects For America's Finest Fighting Force_

 _ **United States Marines**_

-Inscription above front doors of receiving station, MCRD Parris Island, South Carolina

 _You have no idea what you're getting yourself into, bud._

Those were the words Vinnie had muttered to Jason as he left the Garage with Charley. For all he knew the martian was probably right, but if it was to be an initiation, a joining into a fraternal organization, then maybe his experience in bootcamp would give him some context.

Jason remembered his first day at bootcamp. He remembered being ushered off the bus and stepping into the dark of a late evening. He remembered standing on the yellow footprints, being given his first instructions on how to address personnel; being informed of his role in this new society, his new ethos. Before him lie a portal into another world, the stainless steel doors inlaid with the insignia of his new home: the eagle, globe, and anchor. The United States Marine Corps.

Upon passing through he was stripped of everything. It was a methodical process, machine-like: his hair was taken and he was given a cover. His clothes were taken and he was given a uniform. His first name was taken, now all he had was his last. He was rushed from station to station, his new accouterments piled on top of him, the abusive language of the drill instructors hurled at him to hurry onto the next station. He had begun the journey in jarring fashion from civilian to trained killer.

As for Jason's first day as a Freedom Fighters prospect he found himself wandering through the isles of a motorcycle boutique with a beautiful mechanic in tow. To say it had been a disparate experience so far would be a most extreme understatement.

Despite Charley's insistence that she pay for everything he felt reluctant to pick out the same set of gear he rode in to Chicago with—it was expensive stuff, and from everything he noted in his few days in the garage money was a very finite thing. From the stacked bills labeled 'PAST DUE' and the long list of parts needed to be ordered he saw haphazardly dumped on her overflowing office table he could tell that Charley's commitment to helping the mice had put a strain on her business. It had cost her a lot of time, a most precious and irrecoverable resource.

And it wasn't as if Jason was hurting for cash either. Despite selling his house at a loss it was still a couple hundred grand that he got, money he intended to fritter and waste on his downward spiral. But Charley insisted, no, she _demanded_ she foot the bill to make things right.

Charley was also far more invested in the act of shopping than Jason was, his mind was wandering, thinking of what lie ahead of him. What would these trials consist of? Why were the mice so vague, and in Vinnie's case, threatening in their description? How the hell was he going to get the body of an Olympic athlete in only a few weeks? Do these guys use steroids?

"How's this look?" Said Charley holding up a Schott Perfecto jacket. Slung around her other arm were various jackets, pants and other accessories that Jason didn't really approve of, but she decided to pick up anyway. She was beginning to resemble a living clothes rack.

"That's a seven hundred dollar jacket."

Charley frowned. "Well we're not leaving until you pick something."

"What's all that stuff you're carrying for then?"

She gave an embarrassed smile. "Well, it's mostly for Vinnie. I think he'd look good in them and you guys have pretty much the same build and size-"

"-but with less muscle on my part" interjected Jason with a slight smirk.

Charley smiled and blushed a little bit. "Yeah..."

Jason grabbed a nearby empty shopping cart for Charley to unload into. "Listen, I'll pick out my stuff but on one condition."

She gave Jason a nervous glance. "Ok, what'll it be?"

"Tell me about Vinnie; how'd you end up falling for a man—er, mouse like him? I'm assuming what I saw this morning between you two was outside the norm."

Charley had the same embarrassed look she had when Jason had stumbled on her tryst.

"We-ell... it was a long time coming," she began as Jason started to rifle through a nearby jacket rack all the while paying close attention. "From the moment I met those three he was always flirting with me, always trying to tease me. On first impressions he came off as just another one of the usual lunkheads I always dealt with: big muscles but little brains. He was kind of an immature, self-absorbed perv. Hell, I didn't even think he looked all that handsome, yeah he has a great bod but then again he was also a giant talking furry mouse with antennae."

Jason chuckled. "Yeah, I bet that was weird," he said, "I was stunned and frightened when I first saw them, I couldn't imagine feeling that way and then on top of that one of them started hitting on me."

"Heh, yeah." Charley began to bashfully run a finger across the handle of the shopping cart, "but then I got to know him and the other guys better. We spent so much time together, we fought together, we grew together. And I saw him grow up the most. I saw that, yeah, on the outside he was kind of a chauvinist, but he really cared for and loved the people he and the other three swore to protect. He is always sincere and kind and has immense empathy. In a sense I guess he had always been like that, and it was just me finally really getting to know him that made me attracted to him..."

A song began to play from the speakers that dotted the inside of the store. There was always music playing, but this tune seemed earnest, more pronounced, it rose over the din with a soft, compelling synth beat and faint piano. A honeyed male voice began to croon.

 _When you find your love, you'll find your song  
Even though you've been digging through the break of dawn.  
You've been pushing and the push is gone.  
You think it makes you strong.  
Strong. _

_But, oh,  
Nobody knows when it goes.  
When it goes. _

Charley began to aimlessly fold the items that Jason brought into the cart; a leather jacket in the same style as the one he previously worn, the same helmet, same riding pants, yet his attention was primarily at the mechanic as she continued to talk.

"What happened this morning, I guess, was kind of like the dam breaking. All that pent-up affection and suppressed feelings kind of came out. I didn't plan it. I always thought of love like in those sappy novels and soap operas, like the hands of lovers touching by chance in a garden or something."

 _Love takes some time to bloom.  
When it's right, it'll find you.  
When it's right, it'll find you.  
_

"But this... it was so sudden, and I'm still kind of processing it. I mean, I enjoyed it, _really_ enjoyed it. I hope he enjoyed it, too..."

 _Like sunlight breaking through,  
When it's right, it'll come to you.  
When it's right, it'll find you. _

She stared out to the front windows of the store, watching passersby of midday Chicago. So many strangers, so many lonely people. She had the look of someone who had found something that she never knew existed. The song began to take on an almost anthemic tone.

 _We have mostly wasted time,  
half-asleep and have-to-buy.  
Waiting for the faintest lie  
and waiting for these wounds to heal. _

_No, we're never as lost or as found as we think we are._

Charley looked back to Jason, she picked her words carefully, "You might think Vinnie's kind of a jerk, I mean he did tackle you and try to put you to sleep. But then again I think that was almost... poetic. In the short time I've known you, you two have a lot more in common than I think you'd care to notice."

"And why would you say that?" Jason tried to put up an incredulous face, but also felt compelled to hear her explanation.

"Vinnie likes to talk trash and rib people. He has a knack for getting under people's skin, especially the bad guys. You pretty much said some of the exact same things he would say. I thought it was almost uncanny. And, like him, I think you have a good heart. But you seem... lost."

 _Lost,_ it's a phrase he has heard from so many other people, from senior commanders, pastors, psychologists. But from this beautiful, gentle mechanic it cut into him.

"Lost." Jason said matter-of-factly.

 _No, we're never as lost or as found as we think we are._

"I mean, so was Vinnie... it's a long story. And it's a story _he_ should tell, not me. What I'm trying to say is that yeah, Vinnie seems like a jerk and he's pretty hostile to the idea of you joining the team, and that's because he's afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid of you making it—afraid to make another friend."

"Is that what he told you this morning?"

"Not exactly—I've known these guys for _years_ ; they've made and lost a lot of friends."

 _We're never as lost or as found as we think we are._

"I understand," he said. "I've lost a lot of friends, too. Couldn't replace them. I get it."

He remembered the replacements that came into the unit after the time in Fallujah. They still had a job to do, and when he had recovered from his wounds he was expected to fall back in with his squad and continue to function like nothing had happened. Even though it was his old squad he felt like he was a stranger among them. He no longer fit in. He hated the replacements because every time he saw them he thought of Hare and Brooks.

Jason gave a dry chuckle. He felt deflated, his previous determination was starting to sag. Maybe he wasn't meant to fit in anywhere else; maybe he was better off alone, no longer having other people depend on him. He was always a failure, a disappointment.

"Charley, I gotta be honest, maybe me joining isn't such a good idea, I feel like I'm barging into your lives-"

"I'm pretty sure _we're_ the ones who barged into _your_ life."

"Well, I guess, yeah... but-"

Charley interrupted Jason's self-pity with a hard look.

"You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Even if we didn't spell it out with a big bright neon sign we're happy you want to help. In case you forgot we're fighting a war of survival against an invading alien empire and apparently your estranged older brother is helping them. We need all the help we can get."

Jason felt his back stiffen. It was like he was back in the marines and being chewed out by a superior officer. It felt almost comforting. He raised his hands in a mock defensive gesture.

"You're right, you're right. It's just... it's hard to for me to get over myself." Jason slumped his shoulders, he stared at the same spot that Charlie was looking. He had the look of someone trying to recapture a lost thing. "I don't have a good feeling about this. When you lose your sense of self-worth, it never really comes back."

"When was the last time you felt good about anything?"

"I don't remember."

Charley softly cupped a hand on Jason's chin, turning his head to face her. He stared deep into her eyes; their color reminded him of the Salton Sea shore.

"It's ok. Everyone falls apart. The hardest thing is putting yourself back together, and I think you can do that." Her voice was quiet, a soothing salve to his puncturing anxiety, her lips curled in a soft smile.

"I guess we'll find out tomorrow," he almost mumbled.

"Besides," she said withdrawing her touch, "you're too handsome to be so lacking in self-confidence."

Jason smiled, unsure how to take that compliment. He fell back to his old standby: teasing. "Thanks, but I'm not sure how to take that since, after all, you tend to like your guys a bit on the hairy side."

Charley rolled her eyes in an exaggerated show of indifference, yet she still blushed.

"Alright smartass, you got allyour gear?"

"We-ell... yes, but I don't really need all this stuff you're picking up here. This," he said while indicating the items he recently brought over, "is all I needed."

"I know. Some of this is for Vinnie and the guys."

"Aww, you wanna play dress up with your mousy boy-toy~"

"Shut up," laughed Charley while lightly punching Jason on the shoulder.

* * *

Jason stood outside on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette and waiting for Charlie to bring her truck around. Everything she had purchased lay in a heap of bags and boxes at his feet. In comparison to the south side of Chicago where Charley's garage was the city's downtown appeared well kept. This was the financial heart, after all. Since this was where all the money was at, this was where all the money was spent to maintain things, everything stacked at the top of the pyramid. Those who lived on the outskirts of the city also lived in the margins, in crumbling land bought up by the new age robber barons. Here, the social decay was concealed behind business suits and ties.

Jason hated this place. He hated how much closer he was to the Limburger tower. It was a hideous, gaudy looking thing, it's gold fascia reflecting all sunlight in a blinding display of idiotic affluence.

He pondered what was said in the store earlier, and wondered how the next day would go. He wasn't sure what the future held, but he knew he had his foot in the door, and now he was about to take the first step in. One step closer to redemption, one step closer to finding his brother.

Further up the street he could see a hideous purple snake-like object barreling towards him. It was a limousine, it's garish shape and eye-searingly ugly colors reminded him of the Plutarkian spaceships he had seen in Throttle's visions.

* * *

 _So that's it for this chapter. Once again thanks for all the support and for everyone who have enjoyed this story so far. I feel like I'm not putting enough time in this and I know it shows, to take so long to post so little._


	9. A RIVER OF DARKNESS

_Hello again! Here's another chapter, I decided to cut down on the length of each chapter in order to not get too bogged down on a single chapter, and to not keep everyone waiting. Thanks to everyone for their patience.  
_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 9: A RIVER OF DARKNESS**

 _I get told by people that the military turns kids into killers. It's like a machine, they say: in goes young, naive kids, out comes death dealers. You wanna know what the truth is? It's just finishing school, that's all the military is._

 _You remember My Lai? Those guys were absolute monsters. Killin' and rapin' civvies. But the really fucked up thing to me is that those guys were kids once, like you and me. They had moms and dads, sisters, brothers, family pets. They played pee wee football, teeball, hell they were us. They had aspirations, hopes, dreams. American dreams. Think about that. You look back at all the school yearbooks and you're gonna find killers behind those bright young faces. Murderers. Just like you and me, brother._

 _Sure, My Lai was in Vietnam, but we had Haditha. Fallujah. The whole goddamned war. We kill just as much as they did. But we're not the bad guys. People here are just insulated from it. They have distance. They accept it. And they raise their kids to worship that fuckin' flag and love the troops, to never question authority, to love the machine for all it's fucked-up-edness._

 _So you ask,_ he said while washing the caking blood from his hands in the bathroom sink, it's brownish taint cascading into the drain in a whirlpool, _so you ask what is the machine?_

 _The machine is our whole goddamned society, the decaying American empire. We're just goin' through the motions, you and me. The only difference now is I know the truth, and I accept my despair. You're still livin' in the dream world—that stupid fucking hope that there's some good in us._

 _And that's life. It's a river of darkness, brother, and you're drowning in it and tryin' to tread water, stay afloat. All you gotta do is give up and accept it; go under._

 _And remember: there are no heroes, only the dead._

 _I'll see you on the other side, brother._

And with that he walked off, got onto the bike, rode off to parts unknown. Disappeared.

Somewhere in the vast dark unknown, past the rolling mists that clumped over the sleeping Appalachian mountains sped a killer on the run.

* * *

Lawrence Lactavius Limburger was a frustrated man—or more appropriately—alien. Frustrated and busy. With his latest plan having gone belly-up like a guppy in the Dead Sea he was despondent. This was a normal cycle for the Plutarkian entrepreneur. An endless series of near-perfect, no, _perfect_ plans, diligent preparation, only to have everything come (quite literally) crashing down around him the moment those damned, virile Martians show up.

He was beside himself with frustration. He, _the_ Lawrence Lactavius Havarti Manchego Limburger III Esq., the devourer of planetary resources; the strip-miner of Mars; one of the most ambitious and ruthless of businessfish in the galaxy had been countless stymied time and time again by a couple of degenerate mice and a native mechanic in a third-rate backwater planet.

It was almost enough to make him lose hope. To have some _**doubt**_.

But **no**. That is not the Plutarkian way. Rule #1 of any aspiring leader in the universe of business is to never quit; to try, try, try again until you rip that money from your enemies cold, dead hands.

And so he pondered his next plan while sitting in the plush, leather rear seat of his massive limo. To the unaware observer he looked like your stereotypical plutocrat with bulging globs of obese off-tanned skin shoved inside of an overwrought purple pinstripe suit, jet-black slicked-back hair with an off-green shine and cold dead black eyes. Obviously it was a disguise, a human-skin he wore to cover his horrific amphibian visage. To better blend in with human society, even though his natural musk made him smell vaguely like a dumpster fire that someone vomited garlic sauce on no matter how much perfume he'd apply to mask it.

Across from him sat the one competent member of his entourage. He was a recent hire from a few months back, and it had turned out to be a brilliant decision on his part, as always. Standing at over six feet in height he cut an imposing figure in his black leather biker jacket, heavy engineer boots and black jeans. Limburger knew he appeared powerful, with the mystery man's muscles rippling through the heavy leather and denim. What added to the mystery was his refusal to take off his distinctive white dragster helmet, the polarized lens masking any hints to his identity as well as his tendency to speak only in laconisms. The only hint of an identity he had were his long locks of red hair that cascaded down his back.

He had made quite a splash when he entered Limburger's office penthouse, chucking an unconscious Greasepit through the doorway before asking for a job. He only gave one name when prompted and that was _Jacket_.

Despite his mysterious nature he has proven to be extremely loyal up to this point, and was also the one lone bright spot in their last disastrous escapade. Dr. Karbunckle had theorized that this Jacket person had some sort of power armor concealed within his clothing which would explain his being impervious to most forms of kinetic and energy weapons. Couple that with his startlingly good riding skills and superhuman strength and he was the perfect anti-biker-mice. He had those three vermin on the ropes, ready to deliver the killing blow when Greasepit happened to get himself shot down by a nearby US Army patriot missile battery, careening the burning Plutarkian space-freighter he was piloting directly into the Limburger tower. When he was ordered to, Jacket promptly abandoned the fight to help rescue his new boss from the rubble.

Yes, he was a most valuable asset, his Jacket. Made all the more valuable because Limburger knew how hard it was to find good help these days. Because of this Jacket had shot up in rank, replacing Greasepit as his new number one henchman.

And with this new asset Limburger felt inspired. Inspired to come up with a new plan, a new direction to take his business. Earth had turned out to be a much harder egg to smash than he had previously estimated. And it had cost him dearly in two of his most prized possessions: time and money. He was burning through his assets at an unacceptable pace with these simple quick and dirty operations. Plutarch was a hungry planet, yes, but Limburger needed to play the long game. Like what he had done on Mars, he needed to divide and conquer, and do so in a subtle enough fashion without directly provoking the mice—at least for long enough to set up a good trap and once and for all exterminate them.

"And so you see, my dear Jacket, we need to broaden our horizons, increase the scope of our plans," said Limburger, his voice sounding like honey cascading over a pile of broken glass. "And to do so, I need fresh blood to make up for our rabble of henchmen I had to fire just now. Which is where you and I are headed," Limburger produced a small circular object from his coat and held it in his hand, it was thin and black with a series of lenses embedded on it's flat top. The disk suddenly projected a soft, blue lit disembodied rotating 3-D map of Chicago presented in an orthographic format. The south sections of the city were highlighted in a red box.

"The plan is for a new, greater Chicago! Most of the store fronts and properties in the South side I have put out of business and I have also convinced city ordinance to condemn most of the apartments and town homes. You might be asking me why not just starting demolishing and strip-mining these areas? It certainly would be easy and direct. The problem here is that it's too obvious, those damned rodents would show up as soon as I laid a single drill to the dirt." The hologram then zoomed into the red highlighted areas, displaying all the current tenant complexes and industrial factories. Slowly, piece by piece, the old buildings disappeared, replaced by a maze-like gaggle of condominiums and outdoor malls.

"The answer was all to obvious, my fine helmeted friend! Why not just convince the city that all of South Side needed to be replaced? Simple, easy gentrification! I can be the hero in this story: Lawrence Limburger, the eliminator of crime and desolation! The Savior of Chicago! In a matter of months I could buy up all the remaining properties cheap, kick all the undesirables that remain out, refurbish and rebuild a few areas, put some new paint on the road and viola! An inviting place for the hipster millennial sons and daughters of the wealthy to move to!"

The hologram then zoomed below the surface of the city, highlighting several large clusters of tunnels and shafts. "Underneath all this new development are plenty of rich copper and oil reserves, but the city is reluctant to mine all that for some unfathomable reason. While we have the overwhelming love and adoration of the wealthy for helping to fight crime and beautifying the city on the surface, underneath we can mine and drill secretly, a perfectly pernicious cover!"

Limburger began to rub his gloved hands together. "Those disreputable rodents won't have a clue and I will have the time I need to make the perfect plan to end them once and for all!" The obese alien began a slow, ugly chuckle.

Limburger's thoughts were suddenly interrupted as the limo shook from an impact and screeched to a halt. The plutarkian frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose and emitting an exasperated sigh.

"Greasepit, what did you just hit?" His words were restrained. Stressful thoughts of potential lawsuits danced through his mind.

The divider window that separated the driver's compartment from the rest of the vehicle retracted, revealing Greasepit's oil-sodden face.

"Uhh, I tink just hit a' hobo yor rankedness."

Limburger sighed with relief. "Thank goodness; just keep driving you anthropomorphic ecological disaster and just try for at least the next five minutes to pay enough attention to the road to not destroy anything of actual worth or I will have you turned into kerosene!"

"Uuhh, rite, yessir, sorrysir-" Greasepit sheepishly replied, quickly closing the divider screen and driving on from the scene of the accident.

Limburger harrumphed before turning his gaze back to Jacket. "Right, as I was saying-"

Jacket suddenly jumped from his seat, pressing his hands on the car window to Limburger's right, it looked like he was staring intently at something outside.

"What—what is it? What are you staring at?"

As suddenly as Limburger stammered his question Jacket sat back on his seat. "I thought I saw something. It was nothing." The masked man spoke in a quiet flat, cold tone with no hint of emotion despite his rather excited actions moments ago.

Limburger turned to look out at the rear window, all he saw was a red-headed man hunched over the homeless person that was just struck, staring back at them with a shocked expression as he shrunk in the distance. Limburger sensed that his Jacket wasn't telling him everything.

"Well, whatever," he said in a dismissive tone. "As I was saying—hopefully without anymore interruptions—that I feel like us Plutarkians and you Americans have a lot in common, such as our love of wealth and power and disdain for the weak. I feel like this is an angle I can exploit, especially by hiring a new group of henchmen. We need people to patrol this soon-to-be developed part of Chicago, to give a greater sense of safety to the new residents than government funded police officers. What better replacement for a police force than private military contractors? After all you Americans love your veterans, even if they're working in a for profit military."

Jacket nodded. Limburger liked his conversations with Jacket.

A wireless phone embedded in the car seat armrest next to Jacket began to ring. Limburger was getting interrupted an awful lot today. Jacket picked up the phone, pressing the receiver against his helmet. "Limburger Enterprises. State your name and intent or I will find you" he said, and then withdrew the phone as loud melodramatic laughter bellowed from the speaker. "It's for you," he said, handing it over to Limburger.

"Ahoyhoy?" answered Limburger, but all he could hear on the other end was a violin playing a dark melody.

"Hello! I believe this is Mr. Limburger that I am talking to?" the voice was deep and boisterous, certainly male and certainly over-dramatic.

"Yes and who-"

"It is I! **GORGON!** Sebastian Gorgon, CEO and Vice President of Darkriver Security Solutions! I believe you have a business meeting scheduled with me in about twenty minutes?"

"Uh, yes, me and my associates are on our way right now, we'll be there in-"

" **EXCELLENT!** " Yelled Gorgon before he began to bellow again in long exerted peels of laughter. Limburger could clearly hear what sounded like a thunderclap on the other end, the violin music also taking on a more intense tone. "I am glad you have taken the initiative for I eagerly look forward to our dance of the minds! As Sun-Tzu once said: the War on Terror is one percent physical, but 99.9 percent _mental_! Hahaha!"

Limburger didn't have the heart to tell Gorgon that his numbers would have added up to over 100 percent. Gorgon continued talking.

"But to be honest, it would have been no issue on my end to have sent over my armored gun-battery train to pick you up, it's a historical antique; one of the cabins was the same one that Hitler used to accept the terms and conditions of France's surrender, it would be the perfect spot to hold our gathering! I could have even flown my armed dirigible over and extended a long rope ladder that would then carry you up to my captain's quarters! We could hold our meeting in my steampunk fortress submarine!"

"It's quite alright, I'll be there shor—"

"We have much to discuss, you and I! He have this new deal for my guys who are all well-trained former special forces who graduated at the top of their respective classes: two-to-one K-D ratio or the next 3 months half off!"

Limburger was having second thoughts on this business arrangement.

"We'll talk when I get there. I look... forward to seeing you."

"Of course, Mr. Limburger! I eagerly await your arrival! Hehehahaha! **HAAAIIL GORGON**!" And with that Limburger ended the call. He stared at Jacket.

"It's hard to find good help these days, my dear Jacket."

Jacket shrugged.

* * *

 _So that's it for the chapter! I'm already well into the next chapter, hopefully it will be up sometime next month. Thanks to everyone for dealing with my slow pace, I bet a lot of people want to see the romance stuff. That will be coming up sooner than later, but I need to get a few things set up._


	10. THE GUNNER'S DREAM

**2 MONTHS LATER:** _Sorry guys and gals for the wait. Life has been pretty busy for me, and I should seriously stop giving set dates for when I'll have something done. Anyways, here's the next chapter, a lot of stuff going on here, it was pretty difficult for me finish through. Shoutout to **DinoDragonMaster** for keeping me on track with questions about my progress with this chapter. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy._

* * *

 **CHAPTER 10: THE GUNNER'S DREAM**

Jason impassively watched the EMS crew as they loaded the gurney holding the severely injured homeless man into the back of the ambulance. He felt a cold numbness eroding his adrenaline shock, his thoughts only now catching up to what had occurred.

It all happened so fast. The purple limo careening down the avenue; that poor vagrant; the impact; the limo stopping but for a moment and then driving off, it's driver treating the whole incident as no more different than running over a squirrel.

Jason thought of the man, he began to feel pity.

No one sees the homeless, the degraded, the destitute. They are the invisible people, they are ignored while they wallow in their desperate state because of the fear and uncertainty they instill in others: that awful reality for everyone that at any moment with some bad luck, be it a missed payment, an injury and medical bills that can't be afforded or an uncontrollable addiction, they too can end up in this state.

Isolated.

Alone.

There is a razor thin line between being normal and being an untouchable.

Jason had to be honest with himself: before the crash he had seen right through the man who was busy sorting through a trash bin, looking for bottles and cans to load into an old shopping cart for later recycling and a pittance of money—probably for some food, probably for booze. Jason didn't notice the vagrant until that obscenely purple limo had rolled him up over the hood; tossing him, broken and bloodied, back onto the concrete sidewalk.

In the moment Jason didn't have time to think, only to react as he rushed to the wounded man's aid. Laying on his back, Jason could see the damage was extensive and life threatening: the right leg broken at the femur, the jagged bone had jutted through the skin, tearing a hole through the man's old-school forest colored camouflage BDU pants. The right shoulder had been separated, rolling into an unnatural and nauseating slope under the flannel red jacket he wore. The left arm stood straight up in a fencing response. The man was unconscious, his breathing ragged but steady. His eyes, brown irises, half-lidded, stuck between a sleeping and waking state. Jason's gentle prodding and questions asked yielded no response. The man looked to be in late 40's, early 50's with shaggy gray hair on his head and beard that draped over ruddy careworn skin.

Jason remembered when he tried to save Corporal Hare. He remembered his squadmate's hands clamped over his throat, the bright red blood gushing out from between his fingers, the sick gurgling sound as he struggled to breathe; his pleading look at Jason, begging him for salvation as his skin turned pale.

He couldn't save him.

He could not save Hare, but he could still save this man.

It was to Jason's good fortune that Charley had showed up mere moments after he made his assessment. She didn't ask any questions about what to do, she simply hopped out of the door of her lifted Dodge Ram pickup truck with a rather large black satchel. Her demeanor was off-putting in it's calmness as she placed the bag down and began to rifle through it's contents. Jason could see all manner of strange devices and contraptions hidden in it's various pockets and nooks. "For the leg," she said curtly as she produced what appeared to be some sort of brace made of an unusual metal.

Charley placed the brace over the man's broken leg and pressed a large red button that jutted out prominently on the contraption. It began to make strange whirring mechanical sounds as tiny arms began to unfold from the various ribs and joints, these arms began to gently cut away the man's clothes and clean the wound, all the while the brace flexed and bent, tucking in and resetting the broken bone. Jason's jaw hung open in wonder and amazement.

Compared the the leg, the shoulder seemed to be a mere afterthought. Jason helped Charley place the arm back in it's socket, and with a simple shot from another one of those stimpack hypos all that was left to do was to wait for the ambulance to show up while keeping an eye on the injured man. The whole ordeal seemed almost anticlimactic. Jason was certain that Charley had probably treated far worse wounds.

 _Oh shit,_ thought Jason, "I forgot to call 911," he said while fumbling for his phone.

"Don't worry about it," said Charley, "I'm pretty sure someone here already called them."

It was only then that Jason realized a crowd had formed. Several dozen people had gathered to watch the spectacle, many of whom had their camera phones out, probably to record the event, not even attempting to offer some aid. Then again, what aid could be offered?

As Jason observed Charley packing up her equipment he realized that what felt like an eternity in the moment had only lasted a few minutes, and as the ambulance arrived he realized Charley had, with so little effort, saved that man's life. After all, he was a homeless man, what effort or aid could he expect from the hospital that wouldn't be able to make any money off of him?

And that is where Jason found himself in the present moment, staring at the rear hatch of the ambulance closing up, everyone else none the wiser that what seemed like minor injuries were actually life-threatening a moment before.

"He'll be fine, the poor guy. Probably be on his feet in a few days. It looked like he woke up as they loaded him on," said Charley as she rested a hand on Jason's shoulder.

"Did you use some of that stuff on me?"

"Yep. But you had the right gear on, so it wasn't so bad for you."

"The man had a clean break on that leg, it would have taken him months to recover."

"The wonders of Martian tech, huh?"

"What kind of tech're talkin of there, miss?" came a voice seemingly out of nowhere, and directly behind Jason's head. Startled, he turned to see an all too familiar pear-shaped figure of authority. With a frumpy mustache, slight frown and strained blue Chicago city police officer's uniform, although it was only a few days it felt like eons since they last met.

 _Oh fuck,_ thought Jason, _**he knows**_ _, he's gonna ask questions and he's gonna find out how fucking crazy everything is and I'll be in the center of it oh fuck._

"Oh, hey there, officer—" said Jason in a overly-friendly tone as he glanced down at the officer's name tag, "- Peezrchick! Great to see you again!" _fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—_

Pisarczyk's face turned from a frown to an astonished and bright smile as soon as he laid eyes on Charley.

"Well I'll be; is that you, Charley-girl?"

"Officer Tommy!" exclaimed Charley, sharing a similarly happy expression. The two embraced in a warm hug.

"Aw gee, it's been years! The last time I saw you you were that shy little girl with the bruised knees, now look at you!" Pisarczyk gestured with both hands at Charley, who in turn blushed at the compliment.

Jason felt a wave of relief wash over him, it seemed the reunion of had quashed the police officer's earlier line of questioning. "Small world," said Jason.

"Yup," said Charley, "Officer Tommy and I go way back."

"Believe it or not, mister, I used to ride a bike myself. Had an old Harley Road King, chromed out and dressed to the nines, but it was a '79 model, those old AMF Harleys had more problems than Michigan Avenue has potholes. I ended up spending a lot of time down at the Last Chance." Pisarczyk chuckled in his reminiscence, "I remember this little girl pretty much living in the garage, taking apart old bikes and putting them back together again, oftentimes much to her old man's chagrin." Pisarczyk chuckled again at Charley's ever-intensifying blush. "I ended up selling that hog, though. Wife couldn't deal with me blowing so much cash on that thing, and I hadn't seen you since then, what was that, almost 15, years? How're the folks doing?"

Charley's expression darkened slightly, "Mom and Dad aren't with us anymore, they both passed away years ago. I've been running the shop on my own now..."

Pisarczyk gave a pained look, "I'm so sorry, I didn't know."

"It's alright; it's in the past."

"Your parents were good people. I should have stopped by more often. How time flies..."

"...yeah."

There was a moment of awkward silence. Jason knew the mood both Charley and the cop were experiencing, the weight of years gone by, the passing of time; echoes of the past. Pisarczyk cleared his throat, eager to change the subject. "So, how'd you two end up meeting? They way you two were talking earlier made it sound like you weren't strangers."

 _Well, you see, uh, I was riding around after we met in the park and I got ambushed by some alien mice—martians to be exact, they almost got me killed when I got hit by an EMP grenade they fired at me and I wrecked my bike. Funny thing is they mistook me for my older brother who is an outlaw on the run due to the fact that he murdered some poor guy in a bar fight back in Baltimore—but now he's working for another alien species, the Plutarkians, who practice an extreme version of crony capitalism not too dissimilar to our own. They're trying to strip mine Earth like they did to Mars, hence why there are martians here because they're fighting the Plutarkians. Oh, and Charley is working with the martians and is currently probably bumping uglies with one of them, a fellow by the name of Vinnie, calls himself the 'Velocity Atrocity'. He's an asshole. Anyways I decided to join the martians, mostly for the chance to reconnect with my older brother, but also to reconcile the overwhelming guilt and trauma that I feel from both my experiences in war as well as my belief that I personally got my youngest brother, Brian, killed because he so wanted to be like me and my older brother he too joined the Marines and died in combat, this in turn tore what remained of our family apart and led me to a slow drawn-out nervous breakdown that resulted in me selling my house and riding out westward with the intention of killing myself when I got to the west coast— **you know, normal people problems no big deal haha-**_

"I had some problems with my bike so I stopped by the Last Chance to get it fixed," lied Jason.

Pisarczyk made a slight grin, which in turn made his foppish mustache look like a dying caterpillar. "I knew you were gonna have problems on Ducatis. I mean, they're awesome bikes but the Italians never could figure out cheap and simple reliability."

"Yeah," said Jason, relieved that the officer bought his fib hook, line, and sinker, "yeah, the transmission was slipping. Gonna be expensive, but it's a good thing I got some money set aside for these kind of situations."

"So, uh, I guess you two hit it off pretty quick then if you're both out an about? You guys datin' or something?" asked the officer, his grin seemed to widen at the visible discomfort it caused both Charley and Jason.

"It's not like that, officer, puh, uh-" Jason had a hard time pronouncing the officer's last name, for some reason the spelling and actual enunciation made his brain fold into itself in confusion. It was starting to get exhausting.

"-just call me Tom," said officer Tom.

"Right, Tom, we're not dating. She's just letting me stay at her place-"

Charley saw the opening and jumped at her opportunity, "-yeah, I got extra rooms and he doesn't have anywhere else to go since he's traveling across the country so either he ends up marooned in a motel somewhere for a week or he gets to hang around and keep me company..." Charley blushed again at that last statement, her words came out not as she intended.

"Oh, well that's mighty nice of you Charley-girl. Well, I guess it's time for me to get down to brass tacks here and ask about what you two witnessed in regards to Fast Eddie." Tom pointed a thumb at the ambulance that was now leaving. Jason felt some relief at Tom's changing the subject.

"You know the guy?" asked Jason.

"Yeah," said Tom, "he's been out and about here for over a decade. The guy's an Army vet, served in Desert Storm, drove an Abrams. He has a tent in Washington Park and usually spends the day collecting recyclables; he never panhandles. We call him Fast Eddie because he used to run through all the trash for ten blocks in under an hour, but as he's gotten older he's gotten slower. Our station usually gives him some cash we pool up to help him get some warm clothes for the winter and extra food—which, I add, he reluctantly accepts." Tom looked over at the shopping cart. "At least his cans are safe. I gotta make sure he gets these when he gets out the ER... anyways," said Tom, pulling out a leather-bound notepad and pen, "what did you guys see?"

"Well, Charley wasn't here yet. I was standing over there, outside the store," Jason pointed across the intersection, he felt relieved that all the clothing and gear they purchased remained in place unmolested. "I looked down the street and saw this big purple limo—it was a super ugly beast of a car—it was driving all crazy and it hit this poor guy, he was standing right here-" Jason pointed at the site of the impact. There was a noticeable chunk of concrete from the curb missing, as well as scrape marks on the sidewalk—most likely from the limo's undercarriage. He could also see a puddle of blood from where the struck man lay after the accident. "And that's when I rushed over to help the man, and Charley showed up to help. He didn't seem too badly hurt, thank god. And we both waited for the ambulance to show up," Jason turned to officer Tom and Charley, "And that was pretty much it," he said. It was then he noticed that both Tom and Charley had a shocked expression on their faces.

" _What kind of car was it_?" asked Tom in a hushed tone, he looked afraid, his skin an even more clammier shade of pale.

"A... purple... limo? Very purple. I mean, holy shit it looked like the most cartoonish of pimp-mobiles that I could imagine."

"Did it have white wall tires and a Fort Knox's worth of gold trim?" asked Charley, who's expression seemed to be moldering into a mask of anger.

"Yeah," said Jason, who was starting to feel nervous from the sudden rush of tension in the air.

Tom and Charley both glanced at each other, and then back to Jason.

"Limburger..." they simultaneously said.

"Oh boy," said Jason.

* * *

 **Throttle**

 **Actual name** : Theodore, apparently

 **Age** : Unknown, possibly late 20's

 **Current Relationship Status** : (Very) long distance

 **Mental Stability:** rapidly disintegrating

 **Current Location: NOWHERE, AND YET-  
**

Throttle found himself sitting on a pile of rubble in a strange place. He was next to a city street, but it was not Chicago. The buildings were shaped differently, made of brown and tan brick and stucco, cramped together and gated off with high walls. Miles of electrical wires hung in all directions from wooden poles, many were fallen. No building around him appeared taller than 4 stories. Dust and debris covered the street he sat next to. It was late afternoon; he could see the sun setting, casting the clear skies in shades of purple and pink.

He remembered where he was. This wasn't a dream, it was a memory—it was Jason's memory, or maybe it was a dream for Jason, the gunner's dream. He couldn't be certain.

In front of him, across the street, lay the body of the insurgent Jason had shot earlier. He appeared young for a human, but Throttle couldn't be certain because the man was torn apart from the hail of machinegun fire that had killed him. Rivers of blood cascaded from the sidewalk from where he lay, pooling into the gutter. He wore sandals and an off-brand Adidas tracksuit, a Russian-style olive drab bandoleer was strapped to his chest. The RPG he had carried was long since confiscated, instead there were a pair of Marines posing over the corpse, smiling and taking photos. The building next to where the man lay was still on fire from the mortar strike.

Throttle looked at his hands, except they weren't his hands, they were Jason's. He found it strange how they looked; they had no fur, no claws, they felt rougher than Charley-girl's hands, and they were caked with blood, not grease like Charley's usually were. At his—no, Jason's booted feet lie a purple hairclip in the shape of a butterfly. He picked it up and pocketed it in an empty grenade pouch strapped to his body armor. Throttle could smell the place, but it was dulled—he was surprised at how little human noses could detect; all around him was an incredible stench of rotting flesh, burning buildings and the distinct metallic tang of blood, but it was to nowhere near the depth or complexity of what he was used to.

"You did a good job today, Mickey" he heard an unfamiliar voice speak to him. Yet it wasn't unfamiliar, it belonged to Brooks, who was standing next to him, looking over a map. Brooks looked worn, his face caked with dirt and streaks of dried sweat. He was looking at Throttle.

"What about Tyler—I mean, Corporal Hare?" Throttle knew this was the question Jason had asked, he didn't know why, but at the same time he did know. It felt like he wasn't in complete control, and yet also was. He decided to go with the flow of things. Maybe he could gather some more insight into their newest recruit.

Brooks looked deflated at Throttle-Jason's question, but didn't answer. "You did a good job. You saved us back there. You had real balls getting up over the top and meting out some fire discipline."

Throttle-Jason didn't respond. He averted his eyes and stared back at the ground. He felt an emptiness. Brooks could sense his despair.

"I'm sorry about Tyler. It hurts, man, I know it hurts but you can't dwell on it, you know that. We gotta keep going and get the mission done." Brooks laid a hand on Throttle-Jason's shoulder. Something was wrong.

 **AFTER ALL THAT IS WHAT HEROES DO**

It was a statement that had no voice, but he could feel it in his bones, a gnashing, silent scream.

Throttle-Jason looked back up, instead of Brooks it was the little girl. Chunks of shrapnel and rubble were embedded in her gray skin. Her skull was smashed in from the top, looking like a deflated basketball. With her one-remaining arm she slowly lifted the hem of her simple dress, her internal organs spilling out and pouring all over his face.

" **WAKE UP, BRO!** "

Throttle jumped up from his seat, the ruined city streets were replaced with the familiar surroundings of the inside of Wrigley Field's scoreboard, the Martian's hideout during their extended mission on earth.

Throttle was sitting across from Modo and Vinnie, their faces showed concern. In between them was the large wooden wire reel they have turned on it's side as an improvised table. They had been planning out Jason's training. The last thing Throttle remembered before drifting off to sleep was Vinnie talking, or more precisely, list all the reasons it was a bad idea to recruit a loser like Jason, and why Vinnie was better at everything, especially in the looks department. Vinnie had a tendency to do this on most occasions when discussing or planning. Rather than listen, Throttle would use these moments to take a very rare and precious mental break and drift off into sleep. Since he was the leader, the responsible one (in theory, at least) such moments of peace and quiet were hard to come by.

Also, as the leader, he couldn't let his bros in on how it was becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish reality from the hallucinations he had been having throughout the day. Since the imprinting, Throttle had been feeling an increasing anxiety, a constant feeling of being watched and an ever present, irrational dread. He could see the little girl that had haunted his dream—or was it a memory of Jason's? Or some strange cognitive distortion the strange human creates? Either way, Throttle can tell he's slowly losing his mind; he hopes the urgent report he sent out earlier gets a swift response—it's the only hope he has.

"Looked like you were having a nightmare, bro," said Vinnie, "It wasn't one of those cheese dreams, was it?"

"Oh mamma," Modo rubbed his mechanical hand on the back of his head, a sickened look painted his face, "I remember that one time Charley-girl snuck some cheddar in the chili; dreamt I was getting into a planned marriage with Karbunckle, momma was all crying in the pews and you guys were all cheering me on at the altar. Also I was naked and late for a test." Modo shuddered, "I have no idea where or why my mind decided that needed to happen..."

"I'm fine, bros, just got startled, haven't slept too good recently," Throttle removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes.

Martians hate cheese. It's not they're lactose intolerant, nor is it that most plutarkians have the same names as most types of earth cheeses, it's the fact that cheese gives martians horrible nightmares, called 'cheese dreams'. The worst thing about cheese dreams is that they're lucid, the afflicted remember them like they actually happened. Throttle remembered his cheese dream; it involved being hogtied naked to a baseball bench, Carbine in a leather dominatrix outfit carrying a cat-o-nine-tails, a sheep, two reels of bare copper grounding wire and a metal 8-foot A-frame ladder. Also it was on the pitching mound in Wrigley Field during game 7 of the world series, Cubs versus Orioles. Also he was late for a test, which is strange because he never got through martian elementary school. It had left deep scars in his psyche.

 _Wait, isn't Jason from Baltimore?_

"It wasn't that, bros. It was one of Jason's memories, or dreams. I don't know. But I remember everything like it was a cheese dream."

"I don't get what you see in that dude," said Vinnie, "sure, it's all great and fine that he wants to help us, but I don't trust him; he's got gunk in the gas tank. He's got too many loose bolts, he's not as good looking as us, and he's not as cool as us. If we're going to get him to our level he's gonna have to get **swole** , he's gotta also start being a cool dude, because no one in the universe is as bad and rad as us, especially _moi_ , and—"

Vinnie was off to the races. Again. It wasn't so much of Vinnie trying to have a discussion with the others as much as it was Vinnie talking to his own brain. When Throttle's wrist communicator began beeping he felt a wave of relief wash over himself; he can escape.

"Oh, looks like HQ is calling about that report I sent over," Throttle stood up and began making his way to the back room.

Vinnie shot Throttle a patronizing sneer. Modo rolled his eyes at the white mouse's pending immature statement. "Ooh, gotta talk to the girlfriend? Make smoochy faces at each other from across the solar system?"

Throttle looked back over his shoulder, smirking. "I gotta take any chance I can get. I don't have someone waiting for me at the Last Chance."

Vinnie made a strange face, somewhere between shock and embarrassment. "Y-yeah..." said the white mouse, bashfully rubbing the back of his head, blushing.

"What was that look for?" Modo asked Vinnie as Throttle left.

Vinnie looked ashamed, staring down at the floor with a lost expression. "I, uh... I didn't think you guys knew..."

Modo chuckled. "Didn't know? I figured you were up to something when you tried sneaking down to the garage while Throttle and I were napping. Jason's ribbing only confirmed the fact." The large grey mouse patted Vinnie on the back, "there's nothing to be ashamed about, bro. Actually, I wanted to say 'congrats'-it's about damn time you made a move!"

"It's not that. It's—" The good mood that Modo felt for his little bro turned to worry, it was clear that Vinnie was struggling to come to terms with something. "It's Harley... I feel like I betrayed her when I..." Vinnie pressed his hands against his face.

* * *

To the unknowing eye the device that sat on a folding table looked like a strange desktop computer, olive drab in color and adorned with various toggles, switches and lights with a normal human tech LCD monitor and camera attached. In actuality it was a two-way video communicator with a direct line to the martian resistance headquarters. It was also set up to give alerts through Throttle's wristwatch if someone on the other end was trying to reach him.

Throttle activated the video screen, his heart beating in anticipation. Thanks to Charley rigging their wrecked ship's communications computer he could talk to HQ on a more regular basis, at least for emergency calls—for some reason Charley got phone bills for it, and calls to mars do not come cheap. But, at least, when he gets especially lonely, he can talk to Carbine. Charley seems ok with footing the bill—she said she understood. _Man Charley-girl sure is something else._

There was a moment of TV static as Throttle manipulated various switches until a clear picture appeared. On the other end was Carbine with a happy smile, her hands resting on her chin. She was every bit as beautiful as the day they first met, seeing her very light tan fur, her jasper colored eyes, raven black hair; even the jagged scar over her muzzle and under her left eye added a sense of maturity and toughness that Throttle found thrilling. For lack of a better word: she was goddamn gorgeous.

"Hey there, beautiful," said Throttle, his smile was almost ear to ear. Even with his growing fear over his mental state, and all the uncertainty of recent events, he could—for the moment—forget them.

"Hey there, teddy bear," she said, her voice was confident, mature and a tad bit sultry. Throttle's face felt hot.

"Geez, not too loud, babe, the guys might hear."

"Uh-huh, and if they have a problem with that they'll have to bring it up to their superior officer which happens to be—lemme see here," Carbine made a mock pose like was quickly looking for info by shuffling through some papers on her desk, "ah, _me._ Besides, I like watching you get all flustered."

Throttle gave a dry chuckle. "So, how goes the homefront? How's Stoker and Rimfire and the gang?"

Carbine's expression turned slightly darker, although not unhappy. Even though they both clearly wanted to not go through with it—it's business before pleasure, and often when the business is done there's hardly any pleasure left to be had.

"It's same-same. We're making steady gains against the fishies, they seem less interested in fighting us straight on and using the raiders and rats more and more as auxiliaries. Consensus between us and the Army says that the Plutarkians are less interested in what few resources are left on Mars; they're probably eyeing up Earth. Everyone else is fine, light casualties, no deaths."

It was an inevitable thing. Eventually the Plutarkians were going to invade Earth. It was an uncomfortable thought for Throttle. Fighting off Limburger was only delaying the inevitable. After all, there are probably hundreds more Plutarkian entrepreneurs hidden among every corner of this blue planet. And eventually when enough people on the planet get pissed off at the status quo and start to fight back, those stinkfish would have to resort to more _direct_ methods of control. But that was a problem at a later date.

Carbine changed her expression to a more mischievous grin. It reminded Throttle of his cheese dream. That was not good.

"Oh I almost forgot about something that happened recently but we'll get to that in a moment," Carbine was playing the indifferent angle way too much for Throttle's comfort.

"Well, what is it, babe? What's the 'thing' you're talking about?"

"As I said, _in a moment._ Heh, you're so cute when you're like this." Carbine picked up a stack of nearby papers and fumbled through them. "So I got your report just this morning, and it looks like you guys have been getting into all kinds of mischief."

"It's a long story, I know, and things have gotten complicated."

"They sure have. Anyways, of course we'll send you guys all the supplies you need with the stalker ship." Carbine raised an eyebrow as she continued to go over the report. "And it looks like you found yourself a new recruit, a human, to boot."

"Yep, I'm not sure how he'll do, but I'm willing to give it a shot. Moreso in order to help us fight Limburger's new lackey—"

"—who happens to be said recruit's older brother."

"Yep."

"And apparently you and this recruit accidentally imprinted on each other. I told you to be careful with reading people's minds! You know you're not trained for it!"

"I know, I know, I screwed up. But both me and Jason need help, can you send someone?"

"Sent," she corrected.

"Who?"

Carbine's grin, now a knowing smile, returned. Throttle at least now knew that Carbine's mystery was a person. But who?

"I said we'll get to that. So about this Jason guy; come to think of it, I've never met a human man in person. Is he as cute as you?" Throttle's ears twitched and fur stood on end at that question. Carbine laughed.

"I'm kidding! No need to get all flustered. Can't a girl have some fun, especially with you being so far away all the time with Charley?"

"You'd know I'd never cheat on you."

"And I know she'd never let you do that. And if she did—" Carbine pulled out a combat knife and stabbed it into the table. Throttle gulped. He decided it best to get the conversation back on track.

"So are you ok with us recruiting him?" he asked.

"Of course. We need to start getting the humans involved in this fight. We can't handle a two front war like this on our own, but he'll need a good teacher."

"What, you don't trust us?"

"No. Not really," she said flatly. "It's not that I don't have faith in you guys, but he needs the same training you got, especially if he wants to be at your guy's level. And I wouldn't trust Vinnie to babysit a rock for three days let alone give him responsibility over another living being. That's why I'm sending Stoker over to you guys, if he can't get Jason in shape then no one can."

"Stoker? All right! I guess he got bored sitting around all day over there, telling old war stories to bright-eyed newbies?"

After picking Carbine as his successor, Stoker had resigned his role as commander of the freedom fighters, taking on a more mentoring role as head instructor. It would be good to see the old mouse again.

Carbine laughed at Throttle's jab. "Yeah, I guess he wants a bigger challenge, and he was excited to see how a human would measure up. So, that's about all I have for—oh wait, I almost forgot," Carbine's smile seemed to grow ever more joyful looking, which in turn only increased the excitement Throttle felt over what she was going to say next.

"So, about that certain someone I'm also sending your way," Carbine carefully shuffled a few papers around, trying to find the right way to announce it.

"Well, let it out: who is it?" The anticipation was killing Throttle.

"Well... a couple days ago we conducted a raid at a plutarkian storage facility near Olympus Mons. It was an overwhelming success, we managed to cart off everything, including a certain someone in a cryogenic storage pod, like the ones used in deep space travel. I didn't want to jump out and tell you until we knew for sure she was safe and sound in mind and body..."

 _She?_

Tears of happiness formed around Carbine's eyes.

"We found her, Throttle. We found Harley."

Throttle's heart leaped into his throat.

 _She has been found. They found her._

Throttle jumped his chair, grabbing the sides of the monitor, bringing his face in close to the camera. "That's amazing! This is great! I can't believe it!"

All these years, wasted, searching in vain. Vinnie's heartbreak, the agony of loss. All of that dispelled with one single, solitary word. _Found_.

"I know," said Carbine, "I'm guessing she got put into storage by Mace, probably to preserve her as a bargaining chip. No sign of that bastard rat, though. But Harley is fine, safe and sound. She'll be the one who can help you and your newest recruit. When we revived her the first thing she asked about was Vinnie. She pretty much demanded to be flown over ASAP. While we could certainly use her skills here, I figured that the stars pretty much aligned for her to come over to you guys."

"Oh man! Wait'll I tell everyone, wait'll I tell Vinnie and Charley and—"

 _Oh **SHIT**_.

Throttle froze, his face locked in a rather not so pleasant expression. Carbine got immediately concerned.

"What's wrong? What's up?" she asked.

"Uh, what's the ETA on that Stalker ship?"

"Well, they embarked first thing this morning, so they'll be in Earth's orbit in... about an hour."

"Well... uh..." Throttle made a pitiful wish that life wouldn't always have to be so complicated. He stumbled through his words trying to dig out an explanation. "You see, uh, Vinnie and uh Charley, they have..."

Carbine's eyes widened in shock. "They have _what_? What are you trying to say?"

Before Throttle could answer his wrist communicator began beeping. It was Charley calling. "Hold on," he said as he answered, "what's going on Charley-girl?"

Charley's voice rang out, the distinct rumble of her truck's hemi-V8 engine was audible in the background. "Limburger's limo just ran over a homeless man. Cops won't make a move on him. Jason and I are heading towards River North looking for him."

"Damn it, Charley-girl! You can't get Jason involved like this! He ain't ready!"

"Well then, you boys better hurry and catch up to us."

Throttle sighed, "10-4, the cavalry is on it's way." Throttle hung up, looking over to a now sad and worried looking Carbine. "Sorry babe, no rest for the wicked. Tell Stoker to hone in on my wrist communicator. Hopefully he won't crash into us."

"Life never gets easier, does it?"

"But then where would be the fun in that?" Throttle gave a confident smile, business as usual.

Carbine kissed her hand and pressed it against the computer monitor, her attempt to touch her love from across the solar system. Throttle returned the favor.

"See you around, babe."

"Stay healthy, teddy-bear. Carbine out."

The last thing Throttle saw was that familiar tender but slightly worried expression she always had before he went out on a mission. Whatever feelings he might have at the moment he needed to suppress, he had a job to do. He'll figure out the rest later. He stepped out of the back room to see his bros with quizzical expressions.

"Time to rock'n'roll bros. Charley needs us out there; the big stink ran over an innocent and time for us to pay him back in kind. She's already ahead so there's no time to waste."

Vinnie jumped his seat, "About time! I was losing my mind just sitting here!"

"Heard you yelling back there, Throttle, was it good news? You sounded happy."

 _I can't tell Vinnie, we got a job to do, it'll distract him. If we're going after Limburger then that mean's we'll be seeing Jason's brother, and we'll need all the focus we can get._

Throttle grabbed the M79 and the bandoleer of EMP grenades from a hanger on a nearby wall. "I'll tell you guys after we're done with Limburger and his new lackey. Mission comes first."

"Right." Modo didn't seem too pleased with the answer, but at least this would keep Vinnie focused on something other than the horrible crises of self that the white mouse seemed to be going through. "Can't wait to get a piece of that jerk, what's-his-name?"

"I think Jason said it was Danny." Said Vinnie as he began to wrap a belt of flares over his waist. "Which, to be honest, is a really shitty name for a bad guy."

The Martian's dependable, faithful mechanical steeds roared to life as soon they all threw a leg over. The electric garage door for the front of the scoreboard opened, revealing a partially cloudy sky. Rain was in the forecast later on, probably within an hour or two. Hopefully later than sooner. Throttle closed the visor to his helmet.

"Well bros, it's time to teach that fat wad of aquarium gravel a thing or two about the consequences of a hit-and-run. It's time to rock—!"

And all three yelled in unison.

"And _**RIDE!**_ "

* * *

As Charley ended her call she glanced back over at Jason. He looked distant, his hands clenching and opening. His face turned into a scowl.

"As I was saying, the plan is we find the limo and wait for the guys to show up. If things get out of hand, I have an AT-4 stashed in the toolbox behind us." Jason snapped out of his thoughts and gave her a surprised look.

"What the fuck?" he said, "how did you manage to get one of those?"

"I know some people. You know how to use one, right?"

"Yeah, but still..." he glanced back out the passenger side window. "This is all going way too fast for me."

"How are you doing?"

Jason looked down at the cabin floor. He gave a sour laugh. "To be honest with you, I'm terrified. I know my brother's gonna be there, I can _feel_ it. And I'm terrified of what he might say. Terrified of what he has become."

 _All these years, gone. Missing. Disappeared. Now found again. So sudden, so unexpected._

Charley didn't say anything, she didn't know what to say. All she could hope for was that things would work out. Hopefully.

Silence filled the cabin as Charley's truck roared down the Chicago city streets. Their destination, certain, inevitable.

* * *

 _So, that's it for this chapter. Things are about to get messy. There were a couple of songs I played a lot of while writing this, but the one that stood out to me the most was the **ABANDONED STREETS** by **Jordan F** , mostly for the anxiety and tension the song exudes. I think it's a good setup for a big confrontation, which is where this story is headed. Anyways, hopefully I wont be too late for the next chapter. I thank anyone who is still following this story, and I apologize once again for the wait. Anyways, feel free to post any comments or criticisms. _


	11. CRUSHER

_Hello again, everyone. So I FINALLY got a chapter off in a reasonable amount of time. At least reasonable for me. I decided to focus on finishing off Jason's backstory, bringing everything together, and setting up for the action which will be next chapter. I kind of told Jason's story in bits and pieces, but there were a few details I left out, so here was my opportunity to just get everything out in the light._

 _I was gonna make all this one BIG chapter, but I decided it would look better and probably be less exhausting of a read if I split the chapters up._

 _Also I decided to try something a little bit experimental with changing perspectives, please tell me what you guys think._

 _And thanks to all the kind reviews I got. I am very appreciative and thankful for the conversations that I have had with complete strangers while writing this story._

* * *

 **CHAPTER 11: CRUSHER**

Jason wasn't sure how long he had been waiting inside Charley's truck, discreetly parked out of sight of their quarry—it must have been at least a couple hours. The sun was setting, clouds had begun to roll over the darkening skies casting the streets in an eerie, lifeless state. Rain would be coming soon.

Half a bloc ahead lie Limburger's limo, parked in front of some sort of office headquarters. A large sign in plain white font read " **DARKRIVER SS** ", next to it, a logo of a shield with what appeared to be the colors of the old Hungarian flag and a golden sword cut through the middle. A quick search through Charley's smartphone said it was the symbol of the Vitezi Rend, an order of knighthood famous for working with the Nazis in world war 2.

"What a strange and awful logo..." remarked Charley.

It was also strange how easily they found him, only a few intersections over from where his driver had committed the hit-and-run of that poor vagrant. What would be a serious crime for everyone else was a mere afterthought to a hyper-wealthy fish alien.

Officer Pisar— _Tom_... Tom was at a loss for words of what to do when it was revealed to him that it was Limburger's limo that struck the homeless man. For anyone else he would have ordered the chase, but he seemed lost. His drooping mustache had contorted into a snarl of powerlessness. Charley had noted it, and after they went their separate ways told Jason she suspected that the Plutarkian plutocrat had bought off the police department. There was a notable disdain in her voice when she said that.

When they arrived, Limburger's limo was empty. He must be in a meeting of sorts.

And so they were waiting. The bros had shown up almost an hour ago and they had communicated to the two of the plan. Usually, Charley had said to Jason, the three mice tended to come up with a strategy on the fly using predetermined moves kind of like a football team's playbook, and a fair bit of improvisation to get the job done. Some of the things that Charley told him about the bro's accomplishments seemed almost fantastical. But this was a different situation, they had time. And the plan was an ambush.

" _So let's go over this one more time"_ Throttle said through Charley's wrist communicator. It looked something like a knock-off watch that one of those large cell-phone conglomerates produce, only slightly larger and bulkier—probably made for military use, hence the more rugged design.

" _Oh, come on, do we have to?"_ whined Vinnie. Charley smiled as soon as she heard his voice. _"We've done this, what, three time's already? Let's just do what we always do and blast the son-of-a-salmon and get back to the Last Chance, easy-peasy. This waiting is killing me!"_

" _I know thinking and strategy aren't your strong suits, motor-mouth, but this is different. We gotta be exact here, so calm down and—are you vibrating? Seriously?"_

" _Just... someone... DO SOMETHING!"_

" _Oh momma, he looks like he's ready to burst. Limburger better get out here soon or Vinnie's gonna chew his own tail off."_ Modo was clearly trying to suppress his bemusement at his little bro's plight.

"Is this normal?" Jason asked Charley.

"Yep, that's my 'Velocity Atrocity' for you. Right before a fight he gets all wound up like this, he's the ultimate adrenaline junkie" her smile was a mile wide. Jason noted her use of the word _my_.

" _In case he pops, just hold him down, Modo. So, as I was saying—"_

Jason's jaw clenched. He stared out at the gaudy purple limo. In the fading light it's color had taken on a more sinister hue. He was scared, and any mention of what was to come made his stomach twist and mind dizzy with anxiousness. Somewhere in that building was a dark heart he had to confront, a living ghost.

" _We wait for Limburger and his goons to leave the building. As soon as they're out Jason's gonna walk up to fish-face's newest toy and try to talk to him. Jason, if he is your brother hopefully he'll listen to you and decide that working for the big cheese-head isn't worth it. Hopefully you can convince him. If not, or if he isn't your brother, you're gonna give us the signal. And what is that signal, Jason?"_

"I raise my right hand, a fist, over my head."

" _Right on, brother. As soon as you do that, we get to work."_

" _And we kick that punk's ass! Ah—haha!"_ Vinnie seemed very excited at that prospect.

" _Bro, you do know that 'punk' might be his brother, right?"_

" _I know, Modo. But he's a punk; a spade's a spade, and you seem awfully considerate of him after he hit you with a truck."_

" _Oh yeah..."_ Jason could hear Modo's anger roiling over the communicator.

" _Everyone calm down,"_ said Throttle, " _and Jason?_ "

"Yeah?" Jason wanted to crawl out of his own skin at the thought of what his brother might have become—if that was his brother. He didn't want to believe it, but he somehow knew such a sentiment was a false hope.

" _If things go belly up and the rubber meets the road, I want you to get the hell out of there and get behind some cover. You may be a vet and you may have seen some awful stuff but this is beyond your league, at least for now. I don't want you getting tangled up in this until you're trained and ready. We don't need you to play hero, ok?"_

" _After all, that's our job!"_ chimed Vinnie.

Jason smirked at the 'hero' remark.

"Solid copy," said Jason.

Charley looked over at Jason. She could see a man who was struggling to hold himself together, his eyes were focused to the front, his breathing rapid, his hands shaking as he continually rubbed his palms together. She muted her communicator.

"Jason," she said.

"Yeah." The man turned his head slightly towards her, not taking his eyes off the limo.

"If things don't go as planned, remember I got an AT4 in the back, also another grenade launcher under the dashboard. You know how to use 'em, right?"

Jason looked under the glove compartment and saw another M79 latched on two mounting straps.

"I do, but what the hell?" he muttered. "I mean, how the hell did you get ahold of this stuff? And what could you possibly need a fucken' anti-tank rocket launcher for?"

Charley gave Jason a grin brimming with false innocence. "Well, I got the AT4 in case of Greasepit."

Jason looked confused. "Run that by me again? That sentence didn't make any sense. You got an AT4 in case of a greasepit."

"No, _Greasepit—_ that's his name. He's one of Limburger's flunkies."

"You have a rocket launcher in case of one person" Jason deadpanned.

"When you see him you'll see why. All I can say is that it's appropriate."

"Oh."

"Also, I only got CS gas for the grenade launcher. You know, less-than-lethal."

"So you have a tank-buster for one person and then you got CS gas. I gotta be honest I'm a little bit confused."

"It'll make sense as you go along. It was kind of an adjustment for me, too. The guys aren't about killing people. More like beating them up and stuff, but no killing. Whatever it takes to knock someone out, get them behind bars. No more."

"So that AT4 is to knock one person out."

"Yup."

Jason paused for a minute, looking at Charley with the expression of someone who was beginning to regret some recent decisions.

"How the fuck have you guys lasted this long?"

Charley chuckled.

"I have no idea, but we have. When you see those three fighting you'll see why..."

Another moment of silence. Charley felt the need to continue her conversation, more so for Jason's sake than her own; the anticipation and it's anxiety looked to be crushing to him. Maybe she could ask him some more questions about himself, to ease the tension and still keep him focused on the task.

"...so," she said as she subtly un-muted her communicator as to ensure Jason didn't see it, "how are you so certain that it's your brother?"

Jason took his time thinking of a response, it looked like he didn't even register her question until he answered back.

"It's his jacket," he said, "it's one of a kind." He seemed to relax somewhat as he started to tell his story.

" _When we were young Danny and I used to race on the streets near Baltimore. Brian wasn't too keen on it, he was momma's baby boy and preferred to stay at home and study. While he would get honor roll we would go to rallies, underground type stuff, anything from dueling with the Chosen Sons or hanging with the 12 O'clock Boyz. We rode as a duo: street races for bragging rights, never pink slips, we only lived for the thrill of it, of running in the night. We lived a duel life, daytime we were just two losers with no plans for the future, but at night we were like superheroes..."_

Throttle listened to Jason speak through the communicator. He and his bros were parked in darkness inside of an alley across from Limburger's limo. He unconsciously reached for his M79 slung over his hip, opposite to his laser pistol, making sure everything needed was in place. To his left was Modo, also paying attention to the conversation, all the while stroking his cybernetic arm. Vinnie, to his right, seemed distant with a stonefaced expression, idly tapping his fingers on his motorcycle's handlebars, his gaze fixed on the limo and the front entrance of the office complex they presumed the Plutarkian to be in. Throttle could see a pair of eyes glaring at him from behind a mailbox. He knew it was the little girl, he fought to ignore it.

" _We were teens, late teens, still in highschool. We didn't go to class all that often, we spent most of our time working on our bikes, or doing odd jobs to get enough money to buy mods and parts. I had traded my Ninja 250 for a real bruiser, a KZ1300, solid black. I wanted a bike like my dad's, fast in the straights, mean as hell. My bro went the sporty route, got a_ _CBR600, all white."_

" _Nice bikes,"_ said Charley.

" _They were both awesome. And we would race against anybody, from light-to-light or fastest to the goal on a winding back road. The cops got called on us a lot. I think the residents of Hunt Valley were traumatized by our exhaust notes waking them up at midnight."_ Jason chuckled, Throttle could see a faint smirk on Vinnie's face. _"And fuck 'em, anyways, they were rich enough to lose some sleep over us. Anyways, we started to get a reputation; people would call me 'King of the Streets'. I know, it's not a very clever name."_

" _It's not that bad. I mean, Vinnie calls himself 'The Velocity Atrocity', so you_ could _do worse."_ Charley said. Throttle could see Vinnie get upset and was about to say something before Modo grabbed his muzzle and made a shushing sound while trying to suppress his own mirth.

"Right," chuckled Jason. Charley was glad to see some of the tension leave his countenance. It was good to reminiscence sometimes.

Jason could see Charley's hand covering the wrist communicator. He was sure she had unmuted it, probably so she could gleam a bit of backstory from Jason. He was fine with it, he knew trust was a two-way street.

"So, that was my nickname, silly as it was. Thing is, as good a rider as I was my brother was always better than me... faster than me. So people started calling him 'The Emperor'." Jason rolled his eyes, "To be honest, I hated it. We were both always competing, always trying to one-up the other. And almost always Danny won." Jason's frowned, fumbling for his pack of cigarettes. Before he lit up he looked over at Charley, who sighed and rolled down the windows of her truck.

"Thanks. Anyways, we got these riding jackets custom made, black leather, armored. Kind of like the one I rode into town with, but we had these custom emblems stitched in the back. We were friends with this kid who's dad ran a leather goods store over in Middle River, he did the work pro bono. His dad knew our dad, so that was probably why. So, our designs were pretty much the same, just the names and a few details were different. They both were based on those tarot cards—mine was the king card, his was the emperor, but instead of people they were skeletons. We both thought it was pretty metal, we didn't really put much thought into it. Those were the good 'ol days..."

Jason's expression soured. "I ended up burning my jacket after Danny walked out of my life."

Charley wasn't sure if she was right in doing so, but Jason said a name she hadn't heard before.

"Who's Brian?"

Jason momentarily stared at Charley with a wounded expression and then gazed back out at the road, shrinking into his seat, a thin, wisping line of smoke trailed from where his hand hung out of the open passenger window.

"Brian is... _was_ our step brother."

"Your parent's divorced?"

"No, my biological mom died in a car accident when I was about two years old. I don't remember her. Dad remarried about a year after the accident. She was his drug counselor. Her name was Maya."

"Drug counselor?"

"Yeah. Dad hit the booze pretty hard. Started to threaten his military career. This was all before I could memories so this was all things I was told by other people. He was ordered to get treatment, and Maya was the one to treat him. She took care of him and they ended up falling in love. Maya was also recently divorced, her husband up and walked out of her life one day after she recently had Brian, so I guess in their loneliness they found each other."

"Earlier it sounded like you didn't get along too well with Brian."

Jason shrunk further into the seat, he began to look ashamed. Charley felt that maybe she was digging too deep.

"Look, you don't have to talk about it if you—" Jason raised a hand.

"It's ok... I've got to get this off my chest a little... it's ok." Jason readjusted and took another pull from his cigarette, it's cherry close to the filter.

"Brian was... _different_ than us. He didn't do the same things my brother and I did. He wasn't like us. And, you know, kids are assholes. We didn't treat him too good for awhile. He was always complaining, he would go to our step-mom for emotional support. He tended to bully him a lot. It didn't help that his skin was a different color than ours." Jason looked visibly disgusted and pained at that last sentence.

He remembered standing in the kitchen, his little hands balled into fists; Brian's tear-stained face peeking from behind her mother's leg as she cursed and waved a rolling pin. He struggled to tamp down at these thoughts.

 _Push it down, don't let it out, be stoic, be **strong**._

"Oh, so Maya and Brian were... black?" Charley felt a tad bit shocked at that reveal.

" _Yeah. I don't know if it was race that made Danny and I mean to him, but... we really treated him like shit, and looking back it probably was a factor."_

Throttle could hear the strain in Jason's voice; Modo shook his head, and Throttle knew why. Family was of the utmost importance to the large grey-furred mouse, to hear of siblings, related by blood or not, treat their brother poorly was a source of disdain.

" _I think it was because Brian was smarter than us. He was a prodigy as a student. He was really into science and chemistry, I think as we grew older we started to appreciate him more. I remember one summer we would spend the evenings sitting on the old pine tree behind our house, and he would point out insects, plants, the stars, the sun—he would tell all kinds of really cool stuff about them and my brother and I would listen. I think eventually we grew to love him, but we never really told him that—at least I never did."_

"So what happened to Brian?"

An ancient pain, guilt and worthlessness. Jason shook his head, and gave a humorless smirk.

"Well, eventually... Danny and I joined the Marines. To be like our dad. We both figured that was what we were gonna do for the rest of our lives. I remember how proud my dad was when he saw me and my brother graduate, it was the only two times I ever saw him cry. He passed away from a heart-attack after Danny came back from his first tour in Iraq. He never really quit the booze, apparently, he just hid it very well—he never drank in front of us. It took a toll on his body. At his funeral Brian said he was gonna join the Corps as well, and so he did. Danny and I were both surprised. Turned out he was every bit as tough and strong as us, and then he went overseas... and he came back in a casket."

Jason felt tired.

"When Brian died it tore what remained of the family apart. Maya... pretty much stopped living. It was like her soul got ripped out as she watched her only son get lowered into the ground. She lost her husband, and her son in the span of a year. And all she had left were her two damaged stepsons. So, one night she took her whole prescription of vicodin and drank a bottle of vodka and went to sleep forever."

He had to finish the story. He was so tired. The cigarette had ashed; he flicked it to the curb. The streetlights flickered on, one by one. The sky looked like a void, an endless grey morass. Rain was coming.

"Danny became violent," he continued. "He got into a lot of fights, drank a lot. He fell off the rails pretty hard. So did I."

"It's ok," said Charley, "you don't have to tell me about your brother, Throttle already filled me in."

Jason nodded, he felt an invisible weight had shifted on his chest. It wasn't gone, but there was a slight relief. He looked back at Charley, his expression seemed meek and carrying a deep shame. All he saw in response was sympathy.

"War is a motherfucker, Charley. It turned people like me and my brother into killers, and it killed everything around us."

Charley knew all she could do was emphasize. She remembered her parents, and remembered the pain of her loss. She reached out and lightly grasped Jason's hand that rested on the truck seat. This time he didn't rebuff her advance.

"It's ok," she said again, "we all hurt, we're all damaged and lonely. All we have is each other, and it's always best to have someone to lean on."

Jason looked back at Charley. Her green eyes glittered in the amber hue of the streetlight like wet stones.

"About Vinnie—

— _do you love him, Charley?"_

Vinnie had ceased his fidgeting and stared at Throttle's communicator in rapt attention. The tan mouse felt a lump of coal form in his throat.

" _...yes"_ said Charley, her voice was soft, almost dreamlike. Vinnie's lips parted slightly, his ruby eyes watered. He wanted to speak but couldn't find the words.

" _Then hold on to him with everything you got."_

Throttle could see shapes emerging from the office complex.

"It's showtime," said Throttle.

" _You know what to do."_

Jason nodded at Throttle's command. Ahead he could see people stepping out, and first among them was the mysterious biker, the color of his leather jacket seemed to absorb all light around it. Jason's blood froze, it all felt so surreal. He turned to open the passenger door—

" _Jason."_ Vinnie's voice rang out from the communicator.

"Yeah?" Jason turned to look at Charley. She looked worried.

" _You stay healthy, ok? We got your back."_ Gone was his usual bravado, his seriousness and concern was off-putting. And yet—

"Thanks, bro. You too."

—and yet it filled him with renewed determination. He had to finish this.

Charley quietly unslung the grenade launcher from under the dash as Jason stepped onto the curb and folded over the passenger seat, behind it sat the familiar olive-drab coloring and tube shape of the AT-4. She winked at Jason.

"If it goes bad you run back here, ok? You run as fast you can."

"You don't need to worry about me. Sure, I haven't really had to run hard for a long time, but I know for sure I'll look good doing it." Jason gave Charley an confident smile, his attempt at impersonating Vinnie. On the inside he felt sheer terror.

Charley smiled and rolled her eyes, "Oh jeez, another macho man who joins the ranks, big surprise."

Jason laughed as he turned and began his walk. As he left the truck his features darkened.

He knew it had to be Danny standing there beside Limburger's limo, but a part of him deeply hoped it wasn't. He felt his old friends fear and terror begin to creep in, ominously hanging over his every breath, seeping into his every thought. Whatever the result, he knew this was a momentous thing, an end to a long journey, the final destination in sight. A reckoning.

Two brothers, the remnants of a dead family, a love that has long since been buried under the crushers of shame and hatred, now in a head-on collision.

He could hear thunder rolling over the clouds.

His id was screaming at him.

 **THERE'S NO TURNING BACK**

* * *

 _So, that's it for this chapter. I was listening to a lot of HEALTH as I wrote this chapter, they do noise rock and EDM, and they're really good at ramping up tension in a song, and so the final few lines felt like it would mesh with some of their stuff, specifically their song 'CRUSHER', hence the name of the chapter title._

 _Anyways, please feel free to leave a comment or review, and thanks again for staying with the me. The action will start next chapter._


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